


Causing Rainstorms

by MissLouisa



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Future Fic, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:02:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissLouisa/pseuds/MissLouisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In fairness, it <i>was</i> Stiles' idea to go looking for a dead body in the woods that one time, so it's not like he's known for making the best decisions.</p><p>This, though... this is spiraling out of control.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>  <i>He doesn't sleep much, but he doesn't really need to sleep, or eat, any more. He's lost weight, he knows it - (sometimes Sandy, his coworker, who shows up to shifts at least ten minutes before him, without fail, comments on him looking like some tragic heroine) - and he has dark shadows under his eyes. Occasionally, after a big night, he calls in sick, because he feels like shit.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>The depression, the aching loneliness, the longing for home - that's the reason he doesn't work morning shifts. The comedown wears off after a bit, but he's waiting for the moment when it doesn't and all he needs is another hit.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>He thinks that'll be the final straw; that's when he finally gets himself some help.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>He doesn't.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from an Arcade Fire song.
> 
> Warnings for a fic that is centred around drug addiction (specifically, cocaine.)
> 
> Also, when I say slow build, I mean **slow build**. There won't really be any hints of Sterek for a long time yet.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [Devin](http://devinlefay.tumblr.com) who is my soul sister and is apparently more than willing for me to send her emails containing 4000 words of fic and no explanation at all.
> 
> Also, this is a prologue. Further parts will be longer. And have more than one character.

It wasn't like Stiles wasn't aware that dropping out of college was a life changing decision. He knew what he was doing when he signed the forms, and he felt more than a little guilty when he thought of the money that had been wasted on getting him through his freshman year. He was grateful for the scholarship, at least - he didn't want to owe his dad over this.

It was a necessary decision. Well, for a given value of necessary. What Stiles needed was to sort his fucking life out, but he figured that wasn't going to be an imminent thing, and besides, he kind of _liked_ working in the coffee shop and the library, never working early mornings or having any real responsibility.

He wondered, a little, how he was going to break it to his father, and decided that maybe he should just lie, for a bit. As soon as he figured out a way to explain all of this shit away, he thought. 

And then he pushed his concerns to the back of his mind and went out clubbing, because that was what Stiles did, these days. He'd ended up at a far flung college all by himself, which part of him regretted, because maybe he wouldn't have reached this point if he'd been surrounded by the pack - but he remembered how he'd yearned for a little freedom, a little space, from all the fucking ridiculous supernatural shit that was going on at a near constant rate, and he was glad he was gone. 

What that meant was that nobody was here to see him fuck up. It was better that way. He hadn't gone home over the summer, claiming an internship and a commitment to his part time job.

It was a lie, but he loved that Scott couldn't tell that over the phone. It gave him back a little of the power that had been stolen from him his sophomore year of high school. Stiles was a fucking wordsmith, alright? It wasn't fair to surround someone like him with people who were infallible lie detectors. 

They could probably smell the stench of the stupid fucking things Stiles was doing on a daily basis. It hadn't been too bad, last spring break. He'd gone home, and he'd abstained, and been a normal college student who drinks underage and parties a lot, and it was fine.

Stiles is pretty sure Scott and Derek had had their suspicions even then, but he'd brushed that aside, because it wasn't a big deal, then. Not like it is now.

Stiles likes parties. He likes dancing. He's not, actually, such a big fan of drinking. It makes him clumsy and loud, even louder than usual, and he's too honest, and it's fucking awful.

But he can't/won't/shan't dance sober, so he finds other ways to loosen up.

The cocaine does that. The high makes him feel on top of the world. But he's been on it too long, and fuck, he's hooked now. Hence the dropping out of college, to focus on more important things, like the next high, and hiding his dirty little addiction from the world.

The coffee shop is a sweet job, though, he's glad he's got it, pumping away at frappes and mochaccinos, pretending like this is just a stepping stone to something bigger and better. 

Stiles lives for his evenings, at the moment. He survives for the days, he _lives_ during the night.

He doesn't sleep much, but he doesn't really need to sleep, or eat, any more. He's lost weight, he knows it - (sometimes Sandy, his coworker, who shows up to shifts at least ten minutes before him, without fail, comments on him looking like some tragic heroine) - and he has dark shadows under his eyes. Occasionally, after a big night, he calls in sick, because he feels like shit.

The depression, the aching loneliness, the longing for home - that's the reason he doesn't work morning shifts. The comedown wears off after a bit, but he's waiting for the moment when it doesn't and all he needs is another hit.

He thinks that'll be the final straw; that's when he finally gets himself some help.

He doesn't.


	2. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful [Devin](http://devinlefay.tumblr.com). All remaining errors are my own, including any Britishisms Devin may have missed.
> 
> I have never taken cocaine or any kind of drug, aside from alcohol, so most of this is based on the research I've done purely for this fic. Also, you may notice that Stiles behaves pretty erratically throughout, with frequent moodswings. This, too, is based on the research you've done.

It's Thanksgiving soon, he's dimly aware, and he's distantly grateful for the cold winters of northern California which means nobody will be surprised when he refuses to wear just a t-shirt. He's got track marks littering the crease of his elbow, and he's quit his job in the library.

He wonders if the wolves will smell it on him, the sticky scent of the coke thrumming through his veins, making sure he feels alive. He knows they'll notice his heart rate, and the return of semi regular panic attacks.

He thinks about staying away, but it's been so long since he's seen his Dad, and he doesn't think he can really do that to him. He thinks about taking up smoking, and then thinks about his meagre funds, and how he wants to save them for the coke.

And then he thinks about the risks involved, about the scent and the inevitable intervention that will follow and he decides that maybe taking up smoking for the months between Thanksgiving and New Years will be worth it, in the long run, to save himself the trouble. A temporary measure, he promises himself.

He's bad at keeping those, he's learning. 

So the smoking becomes a thing, and counting pennies, does, too. He's not sure what to do about his heart rate, but he figures Adderall had that effect too, so it'll kind of be just like high school. 

He wants to promise himself he won't inject in his Dad's house; that he won't do that in his childhood bedroom, but he's learning, by now, that he's pretty terrible at keeping promises to himself.

He catches a flight home, and refuses Scott's offer of meeting him at the airport. He'll be in a bad state by then, he knows. It's better that his Dad, who has the considerable intuition granted by raising a teenager and being a Sheriff, greets him. At the very least, he isn't a werewolf.

Fuck, Stiles is dreading seeing the pack again.

The flight lands safely, but Stiles is itching for a cigarette by the time his dad greets him at the gate. He's twitchy, he knows he's twitchy, but his dad has been dealing with his twitchiness for years and will probably brush it aside. At least, that's what Stiles is hoping. 

Stiles resolves to drive the Jeep back. One flight is bad enough.

His Dad is glad to see him; it _has_ been months, after all, and so he doesn't comment outright on the weight Stiles knows he's lost. He notices the appraising up-down his father gives him, and he feels anxious, concerned.

Perhaps, he thinks the game is up already.

But then the conversation moves on and Stiles is pestering his dad about whether or not he's eating his greens and his dad is dodging the questions like normal, and it's almost as if nothing is wrong at all.

Except Stiles is coming down hard and if he stays like this too long he'll be sweating and wanting to lock himself in a dark room and never leave again, except maybe to take a hit.

He hates this part. 

As his father drives him home, the night creeping in, he rests his head on the window and wonders how it didn't hit him until now what a shitty, worthless son he was. His father, who's lost so fucking much, deserves better than him; better than a son who drowns his sorrows and his loneliness and his relentless fucking insecurities in the prick of a needle and the rush of something so far past the line Stiles started crossing when he was sixteen.

He wonders, maybe, if his father knows and just pities him enough not to say anything. If his father thinks he's pathetic enough not to comment.

He wonders if his father thinks he's too far past help, or if he's maybe just not worth helping at all.

Even before the drugs, Stiles was a pretty shitty son, and all.

He mutters his apologies about being so tired (which yeah, his dad is pretty surprised by) and heads upstairs as soon as he gets home. He's not planning on sleeping, he's planning on shooting up. He hates this lethargy, this all invasive misery.

The trackmarks litter his elbow and he's grateful for the reminder that this will leave a mark; that this is something to be dealt with with care.

He can't get caught. It's not an option. 

He texts Danny, someone thankfully human and also more than happy to come to Jungle with him, and tells his Dad he's feeling better and he's going out.

His dad looks surprised, and Stiles wonders if he's being a little reckless, lying so much so early in. But he's only here for three days, he reminds himself, and besides, he just won't let his Dad get close enough to see how dilated his pupils are. 

It's not much of a plan, but Stiles wants to be out and having fun with his friends. Well, one of them, at least.

He wonders if he's being careless, but decides it doesn't matter all that much, really.

He meets Danny outside and they go in, smirking at the bouncer who, yeah, recognises them from their high school days. That's not embarrassing.

"How's college?" Danny yells in his ear, competing with the sound of the bass, and Stiles grins. Even if Danny was a werewolf, he's pretty certain it'd be impossible to hear his heartbeat in here.

"Stressful," Stiles laughs, and signals the bartender for some shots. He doesn't usually mix alcohol with the coke, but he needs to keep up appearances for Danny.

He downs it and smirks at Danny, then heads out on the dance floor.

Damn, but he needs to get laid.

He spots a few drag queens, but none he recognises (and besides, none of them were really his type anyway), but very nearly everybody else is completely anonymous. It reminds him of how he spent his summer, and he tries hard not to revel in it, a little.

He finds himself dancing with a shirtless blonde, grinding close, breaths mingling, and this is the rush, this is exactly what he needed.

He thinks about taking him home, but remembers the utter moodkiller that his Dad's car will be.

He settles for a hookup in the bathroom, wiping his mouth as he leaves. Danny shoots him a knowing look from where (presumably) he'd been waiting for him, and they leave together.

"Have fun?" Danny smirks, and Stiles nods, eagerly.

"He was cute," Stiles says. "Besides, there's no other welcome home, right?"

"You could've spent the evening with all of your friends. Scott and Allison have been back for days."

Stiles shrugs. "I'm only here for a couple of days. I need to revisit all my old haunts,"

"And Jungle was top priority?"

Stiles nods, laughing. "Jungle is always top priority, Danny," he says, seriously. Danny laughs and they stagger off into the night.

Stiles gets home a little after three, and thinks about going to bed.

He settles for spending the night playing games he dimly remembers beating Scott at about a decade ago.

His dad squints at him when he comes downstairs in the morning, and tells him he looks like he hasn't slept at all.

"Well, y'know how it is, you never sleep well after a night out," Stiles says, and his dad frowns, but seems to accept that explanation.

Stiles wonders a little how close he's cutting it, if he'll end up giving the whole game away.

He and his dad haven't really done Thanksgiving since his mom died - they usually spend the day vegging out in front of the TV, eating crap. This year, the McCall's have extended an invitation to both them and the Argents (Melissa, apparently, had made noises about not seeing Stiles for months. Stiles hadn't thought he'd be missed, to be honest.)

They eat a lot of Turkey and then sit down and watch football, and Scott keeps sneaking Stiles looks.

Stiles is worried. Stiles is really fucking worried. He's pretty sure this bit is just coming down, but he knows Scott can tell that he's anxious, that he's literally a few sentences away from a panic attack. 

Scott asks his mom for permission to talk to Stiles, to catch up, because it's been ages, and they leave the sitting room.

Stiles pulls Scott into a bearhug because he's nothing if not good at feigning nonchalance. 

"Dude, how was your summer? How's college? How's Allison? Fucking, everything, Scott."

"My summer would've been better if you'd actually come home," Scott says, and Stiles grins, gesturing expansively.

"I was working, I had commitments. C'mon, we're kind of adults now? I can't just drop everything to hang out with you any more."

"Everyone else did," Scott mutters, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry, okay?" Stiles says, and he's trying to sound normal, he really is. Scott's not the brightest, but he knows Stiles terrifyingly well.

"You smell weird," Scott says.

"Is that one of your wolfy things or do I actually smell weird?"

It's not an unfair question.

"You smell like chemical, and pain, and your heart beat is seriously high. And you're kind of sweaty, dude."

"So, both," Stiles sighs. "I'm fine. There's some stuff I'm taking that's fucking with me, I know. I need to focus." It's not a lie, not yet.

"You're the one who's doing History and Philosophy of Science. Jesus, Stiles."

Stiles shrugs. "It sounded interesting."

"Everything sounds interesting to you."

Stiles rolls his eyes. It's a habit he feels he should've broken by now, especially since he's trying not to draw attention to his eyes.

"How's the pack?" Stiles asks.

"They're all good. We miss you, even Derek."

"Dude, I know Derek misses me. I get these sad skype calls on like a monthly basis." (That's true, too, but Stiles doesn't talk for so long, any more. He's drifting away, only partly intentionally.)

"Will you come to the pack thing, this evening?"

It's a risk, Stiles knows it is. But he'll go home and he'll take another hit, and then his heart will be racing fast enough that the lies won't matter. Which is probably an even worse idea than going at all.

"Yeah, 'course," Stiles says. "We're meeting at Derek's?"

Scott nods, his eyes narrowing a little with suspicion, and Stiles knows he's not quite free yet.

"You smell like sex," he accuses. Stiles is a little surprised it's taken him this long to catch on, but then, Scott is like his brother. He probably blocked it out a little.

Stiles shrugs. "I went to Jungle last night, with Danny."

Scott squints at him. "So there's no boyfriend you're going to introduce to us."

"I am happily single," Stiles insists, and that's not even close to a lie. The anonymous sex is one of the parts he really likes about clubbing. He used to long for a relationship but he's kind of over it now, and besides, the only person he's had his eye on in recent years is definitely off the table.

So far off the table, seriously. 

"I'm gonna head home and take another shower," Stiles says, "You smelling that will never not be weird."

"And you're about to surround yourself with werewolves," Scott grins.

"Fucking werewolves," Stiles mutters, and Scott laughs.

As Stiles turns to leave, Scott calls after him. "Lay off the Adderall, maybe?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted on **Sunday 17th February** , as I'm going away next week, and from that point onwards updates will be twice a week for as long as my buffer lasts.
> 
> I can be found on tumblr as elpemmy, but I don't really post fic there, just a ton of fandom stuff.


	3. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, smoking and drug use and Stiles having mood swings because he's a drug addict.
> 
> Beta'd by [Devin](http://lesuth.tumblr.com), because she is wonderful and also lets me brainstorm at her, so credit to her for that as well.
> 
> Also, many thanks to Data, who let me have a meltdown about how I'm a terrible writer at him. And who reads everything I write in spite of the fact that he's never actually seen Teen Wolf.

Stiles shoots up and he feels alive, again. He should be exhausted, he's pretty sure, and he knows he's got shadows under his eyes, but the coke makes it all okay.

His dad knocks at the door and Stiles has to rush to stash his things away. 

"I've got a late shift," his Dad says, and Stiles winces, because yeah, this is one of their Thanksgiving traditions that's sticking around, apparently. 

"It's cool, I'm going out with Scott."

His Dad eyes him, and Stiles wonders how wild eyed he looks, if his pupils are as dilated as he thinks they are.

He should've waited til his dad left.

"Don't be too late. Get some sleep, you've got a long drive tomorrow." 

Stiles nods. "I will, I promise."

"Night, kid," his Dad says, and Stiles finds it weird, all of a sudden, how he's this overwhelming screw up of a son and his dad will still fondly call him kid as he leaves for work. 

He drives over to Derek's, the house they'd done up summer before Senior year, and parks his car. He's arrived later than he intended, but he can't bring himself to care. He had to have a smoke after his dad left, and then once he started he was chainsmoking, and he put away five before he even noticed.

Stiles is a little erratic, and for a few minutes, he wants to be angry at the world. But he isn't, so he knocks on the door. Somebody shouts come in, (because of course they know it's him), so he enters and it's just as he remembers.

Only it's warm. Really, fucking warm, and Stiles can't take his hoodie off and this might be something like agony. 

"You smoke?" Isaac says, appearing at his elbow. Stiles grins.

"Got to pick up a few bad habits, right?" Stiles says, and wow, that's surprisingly honest.

Derek is staring at him from the living area, where he can hear the others chatting. "Your heart beat," he says quietly.

"Yeah, I know," Stiles says. "I'm kind of getting used to the Adderall again? I was off it for a bit because I thought I grew out of needing it, and turns out, I was wrong!" 

He sounds bright, and cheerful, and he's praying that there wasn't an uptick in his heart.

Derek nods, slowly, but he doesn't look all that okay with it. Stiles assumes that's just Derek being Derek (and maybe something to do with the smoking, too), so he pushes past Derek into the living room.

Even though he helped choose them, Stiles is continually surprised by how many fucking sofas there are in this place. He stretches out on one, watching Scott and Allison, Boyd and Erica. The pack works together, like they've done for years.

(Stiles knows that this means they don't need him, not at all, except for maybe the way Derek looks at him, when he passes him a drink.)

"You've lost weight," Derek says, and now they're all looking at him and this is fucking awful. He hugs his hoodie around him (and yeah, he's kind of drowning in it), and shrugs it off.

"Turns out college is kind of super stressful?"

"And you reek of smoke," Erica says, wrinkling her nose. Stiles pulls a face at her. 

"But it's given me this teeny tiny waist," he says, and Erica laughs. 

"Maybe I'll try it," she says, but Boyd is whispering things in her ear, and Derek looks furious, so Stiles thinks that for now he'll probably be the only smoker in the group.

"Lydia's coming later," Scott says, and Stiles brightens up. It had taken him until Junior year to figure out that his obsession with Lydia was mostly a way of ignoring that all of his romantic feelings were directed towards the same sex, and at that point Lydia had somehow adopted him as her gay best friend.

Although frankly, Stiles had the worst fashion sense of any gay best friend.

"Jackson?" Stiles asks, and Scott shakes his head. 

"Didn't you hear? The Whittemore's moved out of California after the summer."

Stiles nods. It's weird, really, that things have changed and he wasn't even here to notice it happening. (But then, he thinks, it's weird that he's changed so completely, and nobody was there to see that happen either).

"How're classes?" Stiles asks Isaac, who shrugs. 

"They're okay. I'm coping."

"Better than you are, apparently," Derek huffs. Stiles winces.

"I'm fine, seriously. It's just been kind of a long semester so far."

Derek rolls his eyes, and Stiles grins because it's such a fucking Derek gesture and he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss this. He'd wanted to escape, sure, but he still loves these people, this Pack that he isn't really a part of any more.

"When are you going back?" Scott asks.

"I'm driving back tomorrow. I've got a shift on Sunday afternoon," Stiles says, and that's a lie, too. 

"I'm sure they'll give you the Sunday after thanksgiving off, if you asked."

"I'm a student, I'm like the shop bitch. I work when nobody else wants to."

They all laugh at that, and it feels a little more normal, like Stiles is back on less shaky ground.

Which is, of course, when he starts shaking. 

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Scott, I said I was fine, didn't I?" He's saying, but it's all he can do to stop his teeth from chattering. It doesn't normally hit him this hard, but he thinks it might be from the drinking last night, the combinations of stupid things he's been doing for far too long.

He's not a pro at this, he doesn't know how to predict which side effects will hit, when. He's mostly just glad this didn't happen in front of his Dad, who had actually attended classes on recognising drug abuse.

No, instead he was surrounded by a bunch of fucking werewolves. Jesus. Stiles really did make terrible life choices.

"Is it the Adderall?"

Stiles nods, grateful for the easy out.

"It's just getting used to it again," he says. He thinks that maybe, if he keeps repeating himself, he'll get away with it.

"It wasn't like this last time," Scott says, which Derek frowns at.

Stiles shrugs. "I guess maybe because I'm older?" It might be. He hasn't done any reading on it. "Or maybe because of the drinking," he says, and Derek's face clouds over even more.

"When were you drinking?"

"I went out with Danny last night. Jesus, were you guys always like interrogators? I don't remember it being like this."

Scott frowns.

"You know, your heart rate is so fast we can't tell if you're lying," he says, and Stiles swears his heart almost stops.

"What would I be hiding? I'm fine, I swear, it's just the stupid fucking side effects." 

"Are you going to be okay to drive home tomorrow?" Isaac asks, and suddenly Stiles is pissed. He's fucking fine and his friends won't listen to him, and he's here for his dad, not for any of them.

They don't need him, and Stiles doesn't need any of them, showering him in concern and putting blocks in the way of what he wants.

Stiles is okay like this, he really fucking is, and he doesn't need to be convinced otherwise.

"I might catch an early night," Stiles says, rising from his chair, but then Lydia walks in.

"You're not leaving when I've only just got here, Stilinski," she says, and Stiles can't help but grin and rush over to her, give her a hug.

"Welcome back," she murmurs in his ear, and he smiles, because Lydia always knows the exact right thing to say.

She eyes him critically. "Your fashion sense has not improved, I see. And you've lost weight. You don't work the crack whore look, Stiles."

Stiles freezes, and then Lydia laughs. "It was a joke, jesus."

"These assholes have already been getting on my back about it," Stiles says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Lydia tucks her arm around his waist, turning him to face the room.

"Well, these assholes don't know how to give useful advice. Eat more. Sleep more. Starting with now," she says, and pulls out a bag from the bakery in town, the one Stiles used to get doughnuts from every day he had an exam.

Stiles jaw drops a little, and he's frankly amazed that Lydia's gone to all the effort.

Then he considers that he's been gone for the better part of a year, available only by skype call. (Noises had been made about visits to and from different universities, but Stiles had claimed work shifts, and nowhere for a guest to sleep, and got away with it.)

"You work too hard," Lydia says, at Stiles look of surprise, which is a bit rich coming from her. 

"Don't we all?" He asks, snagging the bag from Lydia and returning to his seat. 

"That just means you have to share," Lydia says, and then it almost, _almost_ feels like home again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are things I adore.
> 
> By the way, because my buffer is looking pretty good right now, updates will be on Thursdays and Sundays from this point onwards.


	4. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many continued thanks to Devin and Data, without whom this wouldn't have been written at all.
> 
> Incidentally, rating has been changed to M, because it just seemed like a logical step. This is getting kind of heavy on the Stiles is really screwed up front.
> 
> For slightly spoilery trigger warnings, please see the end notes.

Stiles knows he's lucky to have gotten away from Beacon Hills without too many questions asked. He knows Lydia's worried about him- Lydia, Scott, even Derek - they all are, and Stiles hates that.

He never meant to make them worry about him, not really. But at the same time, he's always known it's not the sort of thing they'll be okay with.

He knows, too, as he drives his Jeep far away from Beacon Hills, that he probably won't get away with it when he comes back for Christmas. He'll be staying for longer, he's got no excuse, and they'll already be suspicious.

It'll be harder to deflect, he thinks, he'll have to plan even more. 

He shoots up by the side of the road, two hours into his journey, and wonders what his dad would think of him if he got a DUI. He's not stupid (he thinks he's not stupid, anyway, he's not all that sure anymore), and he drives pretty sensibly, hands gripping the steering wheel tight, even as the cocaine rushes through his veins.

He wants to do something stupid.

He won't, but the urge, the craving, is there.

By the time he's finished his journey, it's evening, and he's wondering what he wants to do. 

He decides to go out clubbing instead of going straight home. He parks the Jeep outside his apartment and walks to the club he started frequenting when he moved here. It's no Jungle, but it's got an atmosphere that works for Stiles, and bathrooms that are spacious, and staff members that aren't all that bothered. (On Monday nights, they have a strip show, and Stiles likes that, too).

His heart is racing, his pulse stuttering in his neck, and he's sweaty. He's on the dance floor, surrounded by bodies (in various states of undress) and he's enjoying himself.

He's not going to let Lydia take this away from him. Not her, or Scott, or fucking Derek. This time out here, this is the best thing that ever happened to him, after a lifetime of mourning and then two years chasing some assholes around the woods.

This is who he was meant to be, he's pretty sure; a pretty face in a dark club with blowjob lips and dilated pupils. This is fun. He can't think of anything better, (though something cheaper might be nice).

He stays out late, even later than usual. It's around 4am and he's hooked up, he's definitely in there, so he's following some guy home, some pretty brunette with steel abs and a terrifyingly predatory smile (Stiles thinks it reminds him of someone, but he ignores it. Priorities.) who was into him. Seriously into him.

Or at least, into him enough to let Stiles stay the night after fucking him through the mattress. Stiles is used to being turfed out after the sex, but this one (Aaron, Stiles thinks he was told), lets him stay, in a bed that's twice the size of his with silken sheets.

Stiles thinks maybe he's stepped into an alternate universe, but he's sort of okay with that, at this point.

He's coming down, and he's wondering a little at the person he's become as the semen dries on the sheets. He hates himself.

Loathes himself, really. He wishes he could sleep; wishes there wasn't this impermeable haze of thought and craving and need keeping him awake.

He wakes probably-Aaron with a blowjob, who smiles sleepily (which is much less intimidating) at him, then heads to the shower. 

Stiles decides that now is the time to call it quits. Probably-Aaron might ask for his number. 

He dresses, and makes the bed, and turns the coffeemaker on (and holy shit, he did not realize how nice this neighborhood was last night), and leaves quietly. He hopes probably-Aaron isn't too offended, but he did get two orgasms out of it, so Stiles thinks he won't be too upset.

When he gets to his apartment, he's itching for another hit, so he locks himself in his room (he shares with two other guys, because he had to move out of dorms when he dropped out. He doesn't know their names, doesn't really care, and he's pretty sure they have no idea who he is), and prepares the needle. There's a little coke, some water. The tourniquet makes his arm bulge a little, and the needle fits in the crook of his elbow. 

It's better in here than by the side of the road, he thinks. He presses the plunger down, and waits, and waits, and waits, and then it hits him, the rush, and it feels good again.

It feels so, fucking, good.

As it turns out, he's really lucky one of his housemates was home when he starts seizing.

When he comes to, he's pissed himself, and his mouth tastes like blood and metal. There's sweat on his brow, and a guy, Brian, Michael, David, maybe? standing over him, looking concerned.

Stiles fights off a shudder.

"I'm fine," he mutters, but Brian/Michael/David's eyes are focused on the needle and the packet of white powder.

"Stiles," he says quietly, and Stiles is suddenly reassured that he chose his roommates well. Whoever this guy is, he's clearly looking out for everyone's best interests.

Stiles is dimly aware that he's shaking as the dizziness fades away. He's only barely aware of who he is, and he feels awful. Brian/Michael/David has a hand at his wrist, feeling his pulse, which Stiles is sure is thundering away, and he wants it off. He pulls his arm away, and finds himself lying weak, on the floor.

He stinks. Everything stinks. This is disgusting.

"I'm calling an ambulance," Brian/Michael/David says.

"The fuck you are," Stiles spits, "I don't have insurance and I don't want to go to prison."

He's fixed by a cold look and Brian/Michael/David. "You need help," he says flatly, and Stiles scrambles, crab legged, away from him.

"No," he says, aware that it looks a little like he's cowering in the corner. "I'm not going to hospital, I just overdid it after a night out, I'm fine, I'll be fine, I promise."

This fucking asshole is not going to dictate his choices, that's for sure. 

"You're an addict," he's told, and yeah, he fucking knows, alright.

"I'll find somewhere else to live," Stiles says, standing on shaky legs. 

Brian/Michael/David's face softens a little. "Look, kid," (which Stiles thinks is a bit rich since he can't be much older than himself) "I'm not going to turf you out on the streets. Unless you really have somewhere else to go, you can stay here. Just make sure you pay your rent."

Stiles nods. This feels like a trap, like the walls are closing in on him. He has to remind himself, firmly, that Brian/Michael/David has no idea who his father is, has no numbers to call to get him in serious trouble.

Brian/Michael/David is just trying to help. 

Stiles breathes through the panic. 

"You're a stroke risk," Brian/Michael/David says, and Stiles dimly remembers that he's a nurse. "you really should go to hospital."

"I can't afford to go to hospital. I'll take the risk."

Stiles may make fucking terrible decisions, but he'll stick with them. 

Brian/Michael/David shakes his head. "Kid," he says, and Stiles scowls, "You need someone keeping an eye on you for at least a couple days. Do you have any friends who can come over?"

Stiles shakes his head. All of his friends - all of the ones he can rely on, at least, are back in Beacon Hills, blissfully unaware. Just the way he likes it. 

Brian/Michael/David frowns, like he doesn't want to this, but he will. "Where's your phone?" He asks, and Stiles shrugs. He thinks it might still be in his Jeep, or maybe he left it at probably-Aaron's, or maybe it's somewhere in here. 

There's a sigh, and then Brian/Michael/David is rummaging around his desk. Stiles worries a little bit about what he'll find - he keeps his stash in there, but Brian/Michael/David is looking for a pen and a paper.

"Stiles, I'm going to write down my number, and I want you to call me if you have any problems, okay?"

Stiles nods, dumbly. This still feels like a trap, but Brian/Michael/David looks like he's on his way out, so Stiles thinks he'll just agree to get him to leave.

"Okay, Stiles, see you later."

Stiles nods again, and slumps against the wall as the door shuts.

He wonders what exactly he did to earn someone's - anyone's- kindness.

He wonders what the people from Beacon Hills would think of him now, but he shuts that line of thought down quickly, because he's pretty sure it's not leading anywhere good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains descriptions of a drug overdose, a seizure and it's aftermath.
> 
> Which, incidentally, would be really horribly inaccurate if it weren't for the supremely awesome help of Devin, who described what having a seizure is like and then pointed out all of the bits that were wrong.


	5. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to Devin and Data for beta-ing and putting up with my shit. 
> 
> Also, hey, finally some Stiles and Derek interaction. Yay!

Stiles spends the days between his overdose and when he goes home for Christmas being careful, and pretending he isn't high. He knows that Michael (who'd written his name down with his number) is keeping an eye out, and has probably clued their other roommate in too.

But he's not forcing Stiles to get clean, which is something, at least. He's just... making sure he doesn't do anything stupid again, which isn't entirely undeserved.

Stiles isn't going to do anything stupid. Not when he has to go home soon, and try and get away with it.

The sense of impending doom is fucking awful, and it's gnawing at him as he packs up his things and climbs into his Jeep. The drive home is long and agonizing, and he's coming down the whole time, and his skin itches with fear. He's going to get caught, he knows it, there's no way he can make it out of this okay.

He knows, too, that the only way he can get away with lying to the pack is also the only reason he has to lie to them, and that twists his stomach in knots.

It's going to kill his dad, if - when - he finds out. 

Stiles is drumming his fingers relentlessly against the steering wheel as he pulls in. He'd phoned his dad from a gas station an hour away, and he's hoping there's food on the table (no matter how mediocre his dad's cooking is). 

Stiles is tired, exhausted, and itching for a hit. He cracks his knuckles one last time, grabs his suitcase, and lets himself in. 

His father is genuinely pleased to see him, and yeah, predictably, worried about the weight loss. He frowns, too, when Stiles shakes a pack of cigarettes at him, because if he can't have a hit right now then he needs a smoke, and there's no way he'll be able to hide that from his dad. 

He lights up, and inhales deeply, and remembers that there was food on the table. He wonders if his father is insulted, or surprised, that Stiles walked in the front door and then straight out again.

"Stiles," his dad says, as he sits on the stoop, cigarette cradled between his fingers.

"Hi, Dad," Stiles says, grinning up at him, because yeah, he missed his dad. What kid doesn't get a little homesick?

"Are you okay?" His dad says, because his dad knows him too well.

Stiles shrugs. "I'm fine," he says, glad that there are no werewolves around to hear the stutter of his heartbeat. Although, there's probably one hiding in his room.

"How long are you around for?"

"I'm sort of flexible? Classes don't start til January 8th, so I'll probably leave sometime after New Years."

His dad smiles warmly at him. "Good to have you back, kid. Any plans to see any of your friends?"

Stiles shrugs. "I'm sure I'll bump into them." 

His dad looks sort of knowing, and yeah, that's not worrying at all. Stiles stubs out his cigarette and decides it's time to unpack. His dad still looks worried (and oh yeah, there'd been something about eating), but he figures he's not too abnormal. Nothing to worry about, yet.

He drops his bag on his bed, and, yeah, Derek is in his room.

What the fuck.

"I thought we got past this in junior year, dude, make your presence known," he says, because Derek is fucking looming. 

Derek rolls his eyes. "You stink. Take a shower. We're going out."

"Awesome," Stiles says sarcastically. "Maybe I wanted some Stiles-time before seeing anyone, huh?"

"Shower. Now." Derek says, and Stiles scowls.

Derek is apparently still the boss of him, he thinks, as he lathers up his hair.

And then he remembers what he has in his suitcase and he hopes that Derek can't smell it and isn't snooping, because it is way too early for the shit to hit the fan.

He needs to shoot up. Christ, he desperately needs to. It's been nearly a whole fucking day, and this is something like agony, and he can't go out and bluff his way through this evening, not without something to fuck with his heartbeat.

But Derek is out there, Derek is listening, Derek probably knows he's freaking the fuck out, right now.

...And there's the knock on the door. 

"Stiles, you okay?" 

"'M fine," Stiles says, knowing Derek will here him over the sound of the shower.

He needs a way to get rid of Derek, as soon as possible.

"I know you're lying," Derek says, and Stiles swears, loudly.

He thinks he hears Derek laugh, which, not cool. So much for his concern. 

"Fuck off," Stiles says, and he gets no response. He dries himself, and tells Derek not to look, 'cause he'll be naked.

He's hoping Derek will play ball, because he didn't think far enough ahead to bring a clean shirt to the bathroom, and all of his glorious marks are on display.

He really hasn't planned this well, he thinks. He practically deserves to get caught, at this point. He's sweating already, having just got out of the shower, and it's kind of disgusting. 

Derek faces the wall as he walks in, towel around his waist, and tugs a shirt and boxers on.

"I'm decent," Stiles calls, deliberately flamboyant. 

He can _feel_ Derek rolling his eyes. 

"Where we heading, then? Are we taking the Camaro? Can I drive?"

(The Camaro thing is an old joke because Stiles is allowed to drive the Camaro but Derek is emphatically not allowed to drive the Jeep.)

He tugs his jeans on, and Derek sulks a little. Stiles wonders why. 

"Go jump out of the window, you weirdo, I'll meet you outside." 

Derek shoots him a quizzical look, and Stiles glares. "I have to say goodbye to my dad!"

It's not a lie, not really. But it gets Derek to leave, and that's what counts. 

He waits until he hears the thud of Derek's feet on the grass outside his window before he scrambles to grab his stuff. 

He wasn't ready, that's the thing. He's not ready to face everyone and think up more and more lies. Stiles is good at thinking on his feet, he knows he is, but this is exhausting.

And his Dad, Jesus. He doesn't want to do this to his Dad. 

The rush, as always, is heady, but he shrugs off any elation and goes to say goodbye to his dad. 

He hugs him, and walks the two blocks to where the Camaro is always parked.

"You smell different," Derek says, leaning against the door. 

"Keys." Stiles holds out his hand, and Derek drops them into his sweaty palm.

Stiles grins. Just like old times. And he's never been able to drive a really nice car, not when he feels like this. He's already anticipating the engine's roar as he races to wherever Derek wants them to go this evening. 

"Where to?" He says, as he twists the keys and adjusts the seat and the mirror until everything is just how he likes it. He's pretty sure Derek hates that, the easy familiarity he has with Derek's car.

Derek frowns. "Your heartbeat is going nuts."

"Where to?" Stiles repeats.

Derek's frown deepens, but all he says is, "Jungle."

Stiles snorts. It's one of his most unattractive sounds, but he can't help it. "You're taking me to a gay club."

"It's where you went your first night back last time, right?"

Stiles considers this, and then another thought occurs to him. "Are you going to be my wingman?" He asks, grinning widely.

Derek sighs.

"If you ask very nicely," he says, after a moment, but Stiles has a feeling that wasn't what he was going to say at all.

Stiles drives, and ignores the looks Derek shoots him when the engine roars and they race along the roads. It's not a busy night, and Stiles feels oddly safe, here.

He parks the Camaro (and he watches Derek check it's locked, twice), and stands outside.

"When are the others coming?"

"The others?"

"Scott, Lydia, Isaac? You know, your pack of misfits?"

"They're not coming."

Stiles blinks. Is this Stiles and Derek bro-time? Because he usually asks for more notice, mostly so he can think of a plausible excuse. It's not that he doesn't like spending time with Derek, it's that he finds it a little humiliating. Him and Derek are friends now, good friends, even, but it's rare if they interact in person without Scott or Lydia or someone around them.

Stiles is just waiting for the moment when Derek calls him out on the feelings Stiles has been not-so-secretly harbouring for the last few years. Or, maybe he thinks Stiles has moved on, what with all the fun casual sex Stiles has been having.

Stiles knows he and Derek are never going to be a thing. It doesn't even bother him, that much, anymore. He likes being friends with Derek.

But he's suddenly wishing he hadn't suggested Derek be his wingman, because the last thing he wants is his longtime crush helping him find someone to have a quickie in a bath stall with.

That just seems like romcom level awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted on Thursday.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, beta'd by the wonderful and long suffering Devin, and it couldn't have been written without Data tolerating me rambling at him about my many and varied plot ideas for hours on end.
> 
> All remaining errors are my own.

Jungle is the same as always. Lots of shirtless guys, some drag queens, some twinks. The difference from now and when he first visited Jungle is that people actually buy him drinks, now. Even in spite of the god that is Derek leaning over his shoulder by the bar. His fake ID is half decent now, too.

He can feel the beat of the music travelling up from the soles of his shoes, and before he knows it he's asking Derek to dance.

"C'mon, man, it's early yet," he tries, after seeing Derek down two shots of something that will have absolutely no affect on him whatsoever. (He considers, halfheartedly, convincing Derek to try coke, just to see what happens. He won't, but the thought is there.)

Derek gives in surprisingly easily, and that's how Stiles finds himself with one knee between Derek's legs on a crowded dance floor. It's really not a bad way to start his Christmas break, he figures.

That's when Danny turns up, and throws Stiles a knowing smirk. Stiles is sure he'd be blushing if it weren't for the fact that he's already sticky with sweat and boiling with the heat from the bodies surrounding him.

He takes a step back, and Derek throws him a quizzical look. Stiles isn't worried, though, Derek's not going to be pissed for abandoning the dancing so early. Up until now, Stiles was pretty sure Derek hated dancing.

"Time for your wingman duties," he yells in Derek's ear, who frowns.

Derek nods. He scans the room (or what little of it he can see from the crowded bar), and then leans down to yell in Stiles' ear.

"Bar," Stiles hears dimly, and then he's being tugged forwards. Stiles ignores the grip on his wrist, how sweaty Derek's palms are.

There are two guys at the bar, and Derek buys one of them a drink. Stiles can only approve of his choice, but this wasn't really what he had in mind. He was really only joking when he suggested Derek be his wingman, but Derek's definitely taking it seriously enough.

Derek leans over to talk to them, and Stiles follows, meaninglessly. He gets chatting to the one Derek didn't buy his drink, who is, yeah, definitely more his type, and when he sees Derek's face he wonders when the hell Derek had time to figure out what his _type_ was.

Stiles is good at flirting, he's had a lot of practice, so it doesn't take long before he's leading the boy, blonde and broad shouldered, (okay, he has two types - Derek, and not-Derek - this boy is in the latter), out to the dance floor.

They're grinding on each other, dancing close together, when the boy shouts in his ear. Stiles just catches "Back to yours?"

Stiles thinks about it. He's pretty sure his dad is working tonight, but he thinks that might make for the most awkward morning after he's ever had, so he shakes his head. 

"I don't really have the place to myself," he yells in his ear, and the blonde boy seems to understand, because he grins. 

"Mine, then." 

Stiles nods eagerly, and lets himself be led to the exit. Derek appears (having ditched the boy's friend, apparently), and assesses Stiles with a look.

"Boyfriend?" the boy asks quietly, and Stiles snorts.

"Wingman," Stiles says, because the other option is an entirely too honest "I wish," which Derek might've been able to catch over the music. 

The guy laughs, and Stiles makes a decision that he won't ask his name, just to see how Derek reacts. 

Derek nods when Stiles shoots him a questioning look, and Stiles takes that as his cue to tug the boy out the door of Jungle. They stumble into the night, and Stiles asks where he lives.

"Just out of town," is the clipped answer he gets, and then he's being navigated around the car park. 

Stiles is driven from Jungle to the guys' flat, and he spares a thought for Derek's Camaro. This guy's car isn't nearly as nice, and Stiles isn't driving, but it's nice to be driven around at all, for a change.

It's not until he's getting out of the car that he realises that he and this boy haven't even kissed yet. He solves that problem by pushing the boy up against the door, kissing him hard and rough. He can feel something definitively hard against his hip, and he grins into the kiss, because this feels like success. 

The front door swings open, finally, but he gropes the boy through his clothes as he follows him towards the bedroom. They fumble a few more kisses, but soon they're both naked, and Stiles forgets to be worried about his track marks, about - fucking - anything, as he presses his lips to the guys' neck. 

He moans, and it's a fucking beautiful sound, and Stiles crowds him onto the bed until they're lying flush against each other. 

It's a long night, and Stiles enjoys the whole thing a fucking ton, to tell the truth. He's sure the guy aches in the morning, but the bruises blossoming around the base of Stiles' neck are a testament to how mutual the enjoyment was. 

Stiles is considering a shower when his phone rings. Derek, presumably, is checking to see if he's okay.

"Yo, Derek," Stiles says, ignoring the fact that his voice is sleep-deep.

Stiles is rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when he hears a mumble behind him. "You staying?" The boy says.

"I should go," Stiles says, because he's definitely coming down right now and he's tired and he wants to go home. 

"You need a ride?" Derek says.

Stiles blinks. "Are you offering to come pick me up?"

"Do you even know where you are?" Derek counters.

Stiles is pretty sure Derek knows he's rolling his eyes right now.

Stiles puts Derek on mute. "Hey, um, where am I?"

The boy blinks up at Stiles, and then rattles off an address.

Stiles nods at him. "I know where I am," he tells Derek, taking him off mute.

"Good. And how far do you want to walk this morning?"

Stiles sighs.

"I get to drive the Camaro."

"Not today," Derek says. "And take a fucking shower before I get there."

Derek hangs up before Stiles has a chance to give him the address, but sure enough, he's outside twenty minutes later.

Derek wrinkles his nose when Stiles gets in the passenger seat, which Stiles figures is fair because he probably reeks to all the creepy werewolf senses.

"I smell amazing," he says, and doesn't even care when Derek snorts.

"Good night?" Derek asks.

"Dude, do you really want to know?"

Derek frowns. "No."

Stiles grins.

"Then yeah, it was fucking amazing."

Derek scowls.

"Also, you totally followed me here last night, didn't you?"

"What?"

"I didn't even tell you where to pick me up from, you just turned up."

Derek rolls his eyes. "You stank last night, too," he says, and Stiles grins.

"You tracked me. That's almost cute!"

"I didn't track you. I just... knew where you were."

"Suuuuuure you did," he says, and then he remembers that Derek is doing him a favor and he should probably try to be at least a little bit nice.

"So," Stiles says, changing tack. "What's on the agenda for today?"

Derek makes a huffy sound. "This evening, there's a pack thing. If you wanted to come, that would be okay."

Stiles pauses. "You don't want me there, do you?"

Derek makes a non commital sound, which Stiles knows as the sound Derek makes when he wants to change the subject. He won't get anything more out of him.

"Your place, right? What time?"

"Seven," Derek says, and Stiles nods slowly.

They sit in silence until they pull onto Stiles' road.

"Do you know his name?" Derek asks quietly.

Stiles snorts. "Not a clue. Don't care, man, he was a good lay."

Derek doesn't respond, so Stiles gets out of the car. He waves as he walks up the path to his front door, and then lets himself in. 

To face his father. Who looks pissed.

"Did you stay out all night?"

"I was with friends," Stiles tries, but his Dad shakes his head.

"I called Scott. You weren't with him, or anyone he could think of."

Stiles tries hard to tamp down the panic but he aches with it. He hopes, prays to some higher entity, that his father didn't go through his room. That would be... so not what he needs right now.

"I was just - out, Dad."

"You're not of legal drinking age."

"I wasn't drinking. Derek was, but I didn't drink anything."

Not one word of it is a lie, too. 

"You were with Derek." His dad sighs. He sounds - exhausted. It worries Stiles, a little. 

"Dad, come on, you know we're friends."

"Stiles. You were out with him all night. Is there something you need to tell me?"

The thing is, Stiles and his Dad had had the awkward coming out conversation years ago, and then they'd moved swiftly on to pretending Stiles had absolutely no sex life, which was true. Right up until he moved out, that is.

"Maybe Scott doesn't know all of my friends, Dad. Derek just gave me a ride home from someone else's this morning. If anything, Derek is looking out for me."

Why the hell was Stiles defending Derek?

"Giving you a ride home from where?" And honestly, Stiles isn't surprised his dad is coming at him with all of the questions. He is the Sheriff, after all, and Stiles knows, as much as he's loathe to admit it, that his behavior's been pretty sketchy of late.

"Dad, just, leave it, would you?"

His dad frowns. He doesn't look happy, about any of it, Stiles defending Derek, Stiles being friends with Derek, Stiles being out all night with somebody unnamed but other than Derek.

But he leaves it, which Stiles is grateful for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. This is the closest I have ever gotten to writing porn - Devin laughed at me. (But then she fixed it so that's fine).
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Next update will be on Sunday, as per usual. 
> 
> If you're interested in following me on tumblr, I'm elpemmy over there. However, please be aware that I occasionally ramble in a usually vague but occasionally somewhat spoilery way about what I'm writing, and as I'm writing about 4 chapters ahead as I post, if you don't want spoilers maybe avoid that?


	7. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Devin and Data, as per usual, for being truly fantastic friends and people I inflict my writing on.

It makes Stiles a little sad that he's getting so good at lying to the pack, at brushing aside their concerns. The pack night goes pretty smoothly, all things considered. And Stiles kind of hates that. Because he wants somebody to shake him and ask him what the hell he's doing. He wants somebody to notice him as human and fallible and broken. It's not why he started doing the drugs, not completely. The reasons for that are a tangled mess of motivations, knotted together until his hands were tied.

He knows that most addicts use their addiction as a coping mechanism, and that's how it starts. But really, Stiles thinks, the time when he should've needed a coping mechanism were his high school years, between all the werewolf shit that was going down, not during his college years.

It's not how he expects his Christmas break to be going, to be honest. He was never planning to spend his free time trying his hardest to lie to all of his friends.

Scott, though, Scott's always been able to see through him a little bit. He's easily distracted, sure, but Scott knows something's up.

He does, at least, wait until they're out of earshot with the pack before bringing it up, though.

"You're hiding something from us, aren't you?" Scott says, and Stiles is struck by Scott's moments of sheer brilliance.

He nods, anyway. He could lie, but it's Scott. He and Scott go way back.

Scott frowns. "You can talk to us, all of us."

"I know," Stiles says. It's a lie. He can't really talk about this unless he's forced to, but Scott doesn't know. Or shouldn't, at least.

"Is it about Derek?"

Stiles immediate reaction is confusion. "What would I be hiding about Derek?"

"Or," Scott says slowly, "from Derek. I know you used to have a thing for him, I thought maybe-"

Stiles shakes his head. He doesn't know why he does, really, but he doesn't want to use the way he feels for Derek as an excuse for this mess he's in- as the reason he's lying to all of his friends.

"I didn't want to ruin Christmas," Stiles says softly.

Scott looks confused. Stiles swallows. He thinks, maybe, this is the best thing he can do. Be a little bit honest, pick a midpoint between admitting nothing and admitting everything.

"I dropped out of college," he says, and waits for Scott's reaction. 

And that, that right there, is Scott's 'let me work out how to react to this for a minute' face. Stiles almost wants to laugh at the familiarity of it all.

"Why?" Scott asks, when his face has eventually sorted itself out into an expression of mostly concern, but a bit of shock too.

Stiles thinks over this. He hasn't, really, had time to prepare a story for why he dropped out of college. He wasn't intending on revealing it at all.

"I kind of panicked, I guess," he tries. 

"You always sounded like you were having a great time," Scott points out, and Stiles has to concede that yes, he was, he was having a fucking brilliant time.

That was the problem. 

"I had friends, sure, but I wasn't learning anything I didn't think I could teach myself."

It's sort of true. Stiles is good at research, at teaching himself shit. Even when he didn't attend the lectures he still did well in the exams because he picked courses that were interesting and did the work.

Although, of course, he was usually high, but it got the job done. 

"But what about, like, a job?" Scott asks, and Stiles wrinkles his nose. It's alright for Scott, he thinks, Scott's wanted to do the veterinary nursing thing since he started working at Deaton's all those years ago, so he knows what qualifications he needs and he has a timeline and a career plan and Stiles can't help but hate him a little bit for it.

Stiles has no idea what he wants to do with his life, if anything.

"I'm okay at the coffee shop for now," Stiles says. 

Scott nods, considering this. 

"Why don't you move back to Beacon Hills?" He asks, eventually.

Stiles swallows, and shakes his head. He can't think of a reason, why the fuck can't he think of a reason, of all of the times for his brain to come to a grinding fucking halt...

"Why not?"

Stiles blinks. "I'm tied into my lease until October," he says, and that's true, but he thinks given the circumstances, Michael would be more than happy to replace him.

"After that, then, come back."

"I don't just want to _be here_ for the rest of my life, Scott," Stiles says, voice sharp, and it's a low blow because he knows that's exactly what Scott is planning, to raise his kids with his high school sweetheart in the town he grew up in.

"So you're never coming back, then? Only for holidays, or as long as you can get away with it, right?"

Stiles doesn't even blink. He looks Scott right in the eye, and nods.

"Beacon Hills won't be home to me, Scott."

Scott is shaking his head, standing, backing away. A dark part of Stiles is thrilled that after all these years, those fights they've had, that finally something he's said has made Scott truly spitting mad.

"So you're what, going to work in a shitty coffee shop in some anonymous city for the rest of your life? Does that sound like fun to you?"

Stiles takes a deep breath. Fun is entirely relative, as far as he's concerned. At some point, he knows, he's going to need to pick up another job to finance his habit. But the job isn't about fun.

"What is there that's 'fun' in Beacon Hills, Scott?" He asks, doing finger quotes. "What have I got here for me, the lone human?"

"You've got us, asshole, that's what I've been telling you all along. You've got your friends, your fucking pack."

Stiles is trying not to laugh, knowing it'll come out sounding bitter and broken.

"Fuck you, Scott. I'm not a part of your pack, don't pretend you need me here. Don't pretend you want me."

"We need you, jesus. I need you, Lydia needs you, Derek needs you. You have skype dates, did you think that was us pushing you out?"

"I've messed up, okay? It's different now."

Scott stays a few paces back, but he doesn't resume yelling.

"It's only college, Stiles, it's not the end of the world."

And that's just it. It is the end of the world, because Stiles can't even admit what the problem is. Can't explain that he can't come back because of the drugs, and that he won't come back because he can see he's not needed.

He thinks about turning and walking away, but Scott is his best friend, so he thinks, maybe, he should try.

"You fit together better than before," Stiles says, and he knows Scott will understand.

"Yeah, dude, we fit together better when you're here."

Stiles hears the unspoken dumbass, and he wants to smile, he does, he wants to smile so hard it aches.

But he can't because he's still in this stupid situation and he's still him. He's still not okay or willing to tell Scott everything.

It's not the same as it was before college, and Stiles is starting to think it never will be. He's resigning himself, a little, to the fact that this is his new future, lies and arguments and pretending he's fine.

Somehow, it's more exhausting than that awful year after his mother died, and that awful, mad year when things kept trying to kill him.

"Everything's gonna be fine, Stiles. We've still got, like, two weeks of break. There's loads of time for us to sort shit out."

Stiles nods, throat dry.

"I don't know how I'm going to tell my dad," he says, and his voice cracks, and he hates it, hates all of it.

"You can't hide it from him forever," Scott points out, and Stiles is grateful, he really is, except, well, he can.

Stiles smiles weakly. "I've gotten pretty good at lying to him, actually."

Scott looks guilty for a beat or two, and then shakes it off. "When did you drop out?"

What Scott means is _how long have you been hiding something from me?_

"Before Thanksgiving," Stiles says slowly.

He waits for that to sink in.

"Were you deliberately taking your meds to screw with your heartbeat so we wouldn't know you were lying?"

Stiles blinks at Scott. Unexpectedly, Scott has given him an out for all of the physical symptoms. He's letting him off the hook, and he doesn't even know it.

Stiles shrugs. "I wasn't sure it would work," he says, trying for nonchalant.

"You're going to stop now, though, right?"

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't want to tell the pack, not yet."

"When, then?" Scott's voice is sharp, and he knows Stiles a little too well.

Stiles thinks maybe he's angry, too, for leaving the pack out of this. For making Scott be complicit in the lie to his alpha.

"After New Year's," Stiles promises.

He isn't sure if he means it, not yet.

"Could I come visit you?" Scott asks, and Stiles is a little surprised that Scott isn't pressing the issue.

Stiles scrutinizes him, and he honestly doesn't think Scott has anything other than the best intentions, right now.

"Yeah, okay," he says. "You'll have to let me know in advance when you're coming, though."

He has to have _some_ safeguards, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I know I said I'd try and stick to a schedule of Thursday-Sunday posting, but I just got out of A&E (which is like the British version of ER) and I've kind of screwed up my left arm and typing large amounts is less fun. Plus this week is going to be kind of nuts anyway...
> 
> So, yeah, next post will (hopefully) be next Sunday. Sorry about that. 
> 
> I adore each and every one of the comments that are left for me, and it's really nice to know that there are people out there who enjoy reading my... somewhat intense idea of a fic. So thanks, and all that.


	8. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the delay on this one!
> 
> Many many thanks to my beta Devin, for her continued putting up with all of my shite. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> Also, to Data, for so many things.

When Stiles starts ending up hanging out alone with Derek, he doesn't really question it any more. It feels familiar, now. After the night when Derek was his wingman, Stiles kind of feels like he can tackle anything.

They're semi planning some kind of gift exchanging event (Derek has accepted that his pack consists entirely of poor student-types, and organised a secret santa. Stiles lucked out and got Lydia, who is surprisingly easy to buy for.) and they're wandering around the mall, ostensibly trying to help Stiles find a gift for the Sheriff but just really distracting him entirely.

"Your heart rate's really high," Derek says, and Stiles is pretty sure he doesn't really mean anything by it.

He shrugs. "I get to have some secrets, right?" Because he thinks he's there now- in a place where he can at least admit he's hiding something.

Derek looks at him askance. "That depends. Are you secretly hooking up with a hunter? Because that's a dark path, Stiles."

Stiles snorts. He can't help himself. He knows exactly what it cost for Derek to make that joke, and he's glad that Derek is there- able to say that in the deadpan way he says these things.

"You know, if this were two years ago, that'd just be you being weird and melodramatic."

"Scott was way more melodramatic than me," Derek says, and Stiles laughs.

"You jumped down full flights of stairs. Made a point of hiding in our bedrooms, which, was weird, by the way, and your dramatic entrances. They were legendary, man."

Derek makes a huffy sound.

Stiles bumps him with his shoulder, and then spots something he thinks would be perfect for his dad.

"No, no, c'mon, it's just over here," he says, tugging Derek by the wrist towards the display stand. "It's _ideal_."

"You're going to buy your dad stupidly fancy whisky in a bottle you can personalize?"

Stiles considers this. "Actually," he says, "you are, because I'm under 21, and kind of strapped for cash, and I promise I'll pay you back but I don't know when because-"

And then he cuts himself off, because he doesn't know when he can pay Derek back because he needs to make sure he's got enough available for his next hit.

Cocaine is expensive and it's bleeding him fucking dry. 

Derek waves a wand, cutting him out of his stupor of _wow, Stiles is a fucking idiot_. "I can pay for it, it's fine."

"You're sure?" Stiles asks.

Derek nods decisively, and picks it up. 

Stiles decides to wait outside (they've done this awkward shuffle before, though last time it had taken considerably more wheedling to get Derek to buy him booze. Possibly because he was drinking with the intention of getting absolutely shitfaced.)

When Derek joins him, bag in hand, they carry on walking. They're aimless now, Stiles doesn't have any gifts left to buy.

"Hey, Derek, who'd you get for secret santa?"

"I think you're missing the point of secret santa."

"Derek-" Stiles tries to wheedle, using his best whining voice.

"No."

"You suck."

Derek just smirks at him. Asshole.

"I'll tell you who my secret santa is if you tell me what it is you're hiding from me," Derek says. He's not even trying to sound sincere, Stiles thinks scornfully.

Stiles scowls. "I'll find out who your secret santa is in a few days anyway."

Derek grunts. He doesn't sound particularly happy. 

There's a beat or two of awkward silence before Derek opens his mouth.

"Why does Scott know?"

Stiles shrugs. "I've kind of known Scott forever, y'know, and it kills me to lie to him almost as much as it kills me to lie to my dad."

"But not me?"

"Derek, just, don't, please, okay? You'll find out, I promise, eventually. Just not yet."

"You don't trust me," Derek says flatly, and no, Jesus, that was the opposite of what Stiles was trying to say.

"Dude, how many times have we saved each other's lives?"

"Stop deflecting."

Stiles sighs. "It's not a big deal. Or at least, it's not a big deal to the pack. It's just complicated."

Derek considers him. "So, whatever you're taking to fuck with your heart rate so we won't know you're lying, does it have any side effects?" He says, shortly, and then walks off, leaving Stiles gaping after him.

Why are people paying so much attention to Stiles all of a sudden? It's, ironically, kind of what he always wanted, and it is also the single most inconvenient thing ever.

"Derek!" Stiles shouts after him, jogging to catch up. "Hey, Derek, slow down, asshole."

Derek turns and waits, a scowl set firmly on his face.

"It's a big deal, but only to me. I just don't want to let anyone down," Stiles says softly, when he reaches Derek. "You'll find out. Eventually. I promise."

And then he pauses, and thinks for a moment.

"It has some side effects, yeah," he says, eventually.

Derek looks unhappy about that, but that's kind of what he expected so he doesn't really know what else to say.

"You're an idiot," Derek says, and Stiles nods unhappily.

"I know," he sighs.

Derek looks worried for a moment. "You're going to be fine, Stiles. Whatever it is."

Stiles snorts out a laugh before he can stop himself. 

And Derek, dammit, Derek looks concerned.

Stiles holds up a hand. "Just, don't, okay? Today was going to be a good day. I'm going for a smoke," he says, and then he's the one leaving Derek behind all of a sudden, as he seeks something like fresh air. 

It's not until he's outside that he realizes that without Derek by his side, he's utterly, achingly lonely. Derek won't come out here while he's smoking (he hates the smell, Stiles has learned, and the implication that Stiles is destroying himself cell by cell. Derek doesn't know the half of it), so while it feels like an escape, it feels like being utterly alone.

Fuck. 

This isn't what Stiles wants from this at all.

"Stiles," Derek says from over his shoulder, as Stiles puffs on his third cigarette. 

Stiles flails a bit. "Melodramatic," he mutters, and Derek smiles. 

"You're the one who had a hissy fit in the middle of the mall."

Stiles nods.

"What did you mean when you said today was supposed to be a good day?" Derek asks, and Stiles bites his lip.

He breathes in air that tastes of tar, and exhales smoke away from Derek's face. He's kind like that, see.

"You of all people should know that Christmas is a difficult time," Stiles says, quiet, and Derek's face closes off a little.

"I'm sorry," he says, a little stiffly, and Stiles knows he means it.

"It's okay," Stiles says, stubbing out his cigarette and tugging a fourth from the packet. Derek tracks the movement, and Stiles wonders what this must look like to an outsider, the easy familiarity he has with the packet, the lighter, the inhale-exhale pattern.

Derek's pupils dilate, and Stiles thinks, _oh._

"You want one?" He offers. Derek shakes his head. 

"What are you hiding?" He says.

Stiles smiles wildly at him; tips his head back; bares his neck. 

"So many things."

Derek's eyelids flutter, eyes on the cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers, an inch or two from his mouth. He makes a choked off sound when Stiles returns it to his lips, sucking in the ash taste greedily, enjoying the effect he's having.

"You shouldn't," Derek says.

"Shouldn't what?"

"Hide things from me," Derek says.

Stiles smiles up at him.

"You have to tell me something first," Stiles says.

Derek looks at him. Stiles has never felt more like he's under a microscope, and he's spent nights with boys who've explored every inch of his body.

Derek blinks. "The pack are coming."

Stiles stares at him, confused, then sees them, approaching from the parking lot.

He realizes, after a beat, how fucking close he's standing to Derek, and how fucking close his cigarette is to burning the tips of his fingers. He throws away the butt, and shuffles away from Derek in a move that's way more awkward than it should be.

Scott wrinkles his nose when he arrives, probably at the smell (Derek didn't seem to mind it this time, a voice in the back of his mind helpfully informs Stiles.)

"Christmas shopping?" Erica asks, and fuck, is she _leering_ at them?

"Bought something for my dad," Stiles says, gesturing at the bag between them. 

"Did you guys have a _mall date_?" 

Erica grins entirely too widely as they both respond at the same time.

"We were just shopping," Derek grunts, as Stiles mutters, "It wasn't a date, Erica, I swear to god."

Boyd looks impassive, but Isaac smirks and even Scott looks like he's trying hard not to laugh.

Stiles considers him a traitor, but only briefly. It is, after all, Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> (Actual vague attempts at sexual tension? I personally find smoking really hot but different strokes for different folks) 
> 
> Anyway - this chapter was late for various reasons, partly because I completely forgot it was Mothers' day yesterday so spent the day doing family things, partly because I'm lazy and overworked and spend two days away from home last week, and partly because it was results day and that was emotionally exhausting and UGH. A Levels are /hard/. 
> 
> At this point, I have to abandon any pretense at keeping up with a posting schedule. I'm still writing like twice a week, but Devin is also a very busy person and I'm too aware of how godawful my writing is without betaing to get up the courage to post it on my own.
> 
> SO. From this point onwards, chapters will be posted as and when I get them back from my beta. 
> 
> But I promise I won't abandon this because honestly I'm too excited about where it's going to ever stop writing it xD
> 
> ANYWAY. That was an stupidly longwinded end note, but there's more:
> 
> I'm elpemmy on tumblr, and you can follow me over there if you so desire. I occasionally ramble about my plot dilemmas and post extracts if they're not too spoilery, but mostly I just squee over stuff. 
> 
> Also, even though I don't respond to them all because I spend days having crises about how spoilery my response will be, your comments fill me with joy.


	9. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is full of angst. Um.
> 
> Many continued thanks to Devin and Data for putting up with my shit.

The thing is, Christmas is bound to be difficult. Stiles' dad is a workaholic, Stiles' mom is dead, and he doesn't really have any other family to speak of.

It kind of sucks. It always has, ever since his mom died. But he feels like this year will be worse than ever. He's read the statistics, knows the facts - tons of people get depressed over the holiday season. Tons of people struggle with mental health problems and addiction over the holiday season.

He just really hadn't expected that it would be _this_ bad.

The secret santa they'd done last night, on Christmas Eve, had been okay. Had been heartwarming, almost. Lydia had typically loved her gift, and Isaac had bought him some batman paraphernalia. 

Later, quietly, Derek had pulled him aside and given him a wry smile and a leather bound copy of "Evading the Senses". It was way more than Stiles had expected, really, and it served as a gentle reminder that Derek didn't resent him (yet) for keeping things from him.

It was also nice to get some more info on werewolf lore in general, and though Stiles didn't know where Derek had got this from, he was glad that he was being trusted with this information. It felt like he was more in the pack, again, instead of just a peripheral member.

That still left him, on Christmas morning, wondering how he was going to face his father. He'd considered going out last night, getting wrecked, enjoying himself, and then he'd considered the look on his father's face when he walked home in the morning and decided that no matter how much fun it would be, he can't do that to his dad.

It still sits on his chest, a sharp and jagged reminder of how fucking stupid he is, when he wakes up shaking on Christmas morning. He feels like shit, and he's tired, and he wants to sleep for about another decade, but that really isn't an option.

He has to make an effort, today of all days, no matter how much he feels like shutting the blinds and locking the door and never talking to anyone ever again.

He knows what he's getting this morning, too, so there's nothing to be excited about there. He's asked for money, for 'gas', and though he knows his dad has a few surprises up his sleeve, he's not expecting anything less sparse than their usual Christmas.

It's not like he and his dad are close, any more, not after all the lying and the getting caught at crime scenes and then only seeing him three times a year. 

If there's anything Stiles regrets about this whole thing, it's how it has affected his dad. If it hadn't been for all of the things he needed to hide and pretend weren't happening, he'd have spent the summer here, at home, and come a little way, maybe, to repairing their relationship.

It hadn't happened, though, and there's nobody to blame for that but Stiles.

He crawls his way out of bed, and thinks about the coke.

He thinks about quitting, seriously, for the first time, but he craves it, needs it like he's never needed anything else before, except maybe his mom right after she died. It hasn't even been a day, and he already needs his next hit; he can't cope without it and that's awful.

It's the exact kind of situation he promised himself he'd never get into.

He can't do this shit, he's fucking tired of it. He needs an escape; an out, which is what cocaine had been for him in the first place. He fucking hates it.

He wonders, maybe, what it would mean to get caught now, to let his secret slip. What would happen if he was found out.

Every picture that conjures up in his mind is ugly and awful and full of pain.

His dad stomps down the stairs, shouting that there'd be bacon in 15 minutes, it's a Christmas treat, no arguments, and Stiles sighs.

He's got about ten minutes left, and he's hunting for a vein, and it strikes him how hard it is to find one. He'd been warned this would happen, sure, but it's a whole other thing seeing it.

His hands are shaking, but he's careful, he's not stupid, dammit, so he takes his time, and he gets the needle into the crook of his elbow and he presses the plunger down.

His ears start ringing and he thinks about hiding this from his dad.

His dad hasn't looked too closely at him in years, too afraid of what he'll see, so he thinks he'll be okay. Or, he hopes he will, anyway.

His dad's bacon hasn't gotten any less delicious for lack of cooking over the years, though Stiles thinks that he may have been cheating on his diet while Stiles was away from home. 

He leaves his plate half finished, feeling like he can't eat any more, and looks apologetically at his dad, who frowns. It's the kind of silent communication that he's missed, more than a little bit, and it makes him smile even as it makes him worry about being obvious. 

"You should eat more, kiddo," his dad says, and Stiles smiles.

"Yeah, I know."

His dad nods decisively. "Ready to go?"

They're out the door within minutes because Stiles checks his watch, and they're running late. They weren't originally a religious family, but his mom, the Christmas when she knew she was dying, had insisted they go, and it had become a tradition since then.

They always stop at the graveyard on the way home, and every year Stiles has to stand a few paces away and pretend he doesn't see his dad crying.

It aches, but now in an old, familiar way, that feels something like home.

They go to Christmas dinner at the McCall's, a long standing tradition ever since that first year when his dad tried to pick up a shift and leave Stiles with then. The first year had been the worst, but Stiles isn't sure it's gotten all that much easier.

Melissa helps, though - her new boyfriend (way less creepy than Peter Hale) is around too, which is weird, but nice.

Stiles wonders if his dad will ever move on, and hates himself for hoping that he won't, that it'll be just the two of them and the empty space at the dinner table for the rest of their lives.

They all know, though, that Christmas is hard for the Stilinskis - everyone except Melissa's boyfriend, Andrew, who picks up on the tension and proves himself by not mentioning it even once.

Stiles has bought Scott an xbox game about zombies, and Scott has bought Stiles a t-shirt. It's short sleeved, but Scott is demanding he try it on, and Stiles doesn't have a fucking clue how to deal with this.

He settles for tugging it on over the top of his long sleeved t-shirt, which gets him a weird look but he shrugs it off. "I'm cold," he says, pouting.

"That's because you've got no body fat," Scott mutters. 

Stiles scowls at him until he drops it.

"You have excellent taste, though, dude," he says, and it's true, and it's a shame Scott can't hear that he's telling the truth.

They talk and they laugh, and all in all it's an okay Christmas, as they go. Andrew seems nice, friendly, and Scott's only being slightly weird about it (Stiles is proud of him - he feels like he raised him to be a real man, now.)

Scott pulls him aside later, and he's angry and Stiles wonders how he didn't see it before.

"What are you hiding?" He hisses. 

"I'm... not?" Stiles says. He's confused, he really is. He honestly has no idea what the fuck Scott is talking about.

"Why do you need to lie, to me, today?"

_Oh._

"I didn't - Scott - I wasn't trying to-"

Stiles doesn't have an excuse. He knows he doesn't have an excuse, Scott knows he doesn't have an excuse. _This is it,_ he thinks, _It's all over_.

"You didn't tell me everything," Scott accuses, and Stiles feels like he's drowning in the weight of Scott's stare.

"It's just-" Stiles takes a deep breath, tries for honesty. "It's just something I have to do right now, okay?"

Scott looks like it isn't okay. Scott looks like it might never be okay and he might not let Stiles out of this room until Stiles spills everything, and Stiles feels sick to his stomach.

"You'll tell them," Scott says. "You'll tell them, and me, everything."

"After New Years," Stiles promises.

Scott nods his assent, and takes a step back. Letting Stiles make the decision whether to stay or go.

Stiles stays, out of loyalty to the friendship that used to be the most important thing in the world to him.

He doesn't answer any more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments fill me with joy.
> 
> The next chapter will be up in a couple of days, hopefully (I'm trying to not let a whole week get between updates).


	10. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many continued thanks to Devin for betaing for me, putting up with my incessant nagging, being a generally awesome friend.
> 
> Also, this chapter contains descriptions of a panic attack. I realise this is something of a fandom cliche but in my defense, panic attacks are a symptom of cocaine abuse.

Stiles can't stop the telltale itch that Scott knows something, or at least suspects. He avoids him for a few days, because really, it's easier that way.

Instead, he hangs out with Derek.

They're bickering lazily over what movie to watch in Derek's too warm house.

"I want to watch Fight Club," Stiles says.

"You always want to watch Fight Club," Derek points out, and Stiles inclines his head.

"But that's because it's a _really good movie_."

Derek rolls his eyes. 

"Do you have any better suggestions, dude?" 

"Iron Man."

Stiles scowls. "You wish you were Tony Stark."

Derek smirks. "We're watching Iron Man."

"Fight Club."

"You know the plot of Fight Club backwards."

"So? Brad Pitt getting punched in the face. Helena Bonham Carter. What's not to love?"

Derek sighs.

"A Knight's Tale," he says, eventually, and Stiles thinks about it.

"I _do_ like Heath Ledger." 

"I know," Derek says, smug. 

"I feel like I've been tricked," Stiles says accusingly.

Derek looks like he's considering this. "I just know you," he says eventually, and Stiles blinks at him.

Because holy shit, yeah, he does, apparently. When did that happen, and how did Stiles miss it so completely?

The tiny little bubble of hope that has been rising in Stiles' chest pops when it hits him. He's an addict. He can't be honest with Derek.

At best, he can mislead him and try not to hurt him too much.

That feels awful.

Derek hasn't moved from the sofa and is watching Stiles curiously. Stiles wonders how many of his emotions Derek can pick up on; how well he knows him by that.

"I don't want to get up," Stiles sighs, looking at the dvd player which is unhelpfully really fucking far away.

"We don't have to watch a movie," Derek says, and Stiles takes a moment to consider the other options, wonders if Derek can tell what he's picturing.

"Do you really want to talk to me, Derek? I mean, really?"

Derek smirks. "You're not so bad."

Stiles swears his whole heart stops. 

"I would probably rate you a solid six out of ten," he says, when he recovers, and finds himself wishing that Derek could tell he was lying, for once.

Derek smiles, and Stiles thinks maybe Derek didn't need to hear his heartbeat to figure it out anyway.

"What do you propose we do this evening, then?" Stiles asks.

Derek tilts his head to the side. "Have you been back to Jungle since that first night?"

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't know if you heard, but my dad wasn't too happy about me staying out all night. Or about you bringing me home in the morning."

"Next time I'll let you do the walk of shame, then."

Stiles sighs. "Looks that way."

Derek eyes him curiously. "How often do you go clubbing at college?"

Stiles can't help but blanch a little at the word _college_. He hasn't done much thinking about it since he finally told Scott, but it still sucks.

"Three or four times a week, I guess?" 

He knows that's more than average, he knows his priorities are screwed up.

Derek raises an eyebrow. "And you said you lost weight because you were overworked."

That startles a laugh out of Stiles. "Well, you know, I've got to cram as much fun into any given 24 hour period. That counts as work, right?"

Derek shakes his head. "You're an idiot."

"Yeah," Stiles says, and Derek looks surprised at his acquiescence.

"Do you go home with someone, every time?" Derek's voice is quiet, full of concern. Stiles doesn't like it one bit, doesn't like where this conversation is going.

"Sometimes I don't make it as far as home," Stiles says, and he knows the implications of the words spilling out of his mouth, and he knows that Derek can hear the self loathing in his voice.

"Jesus, Stiles," Derek mutters. "Why?"

"Because it's _fun_ ," Stiles says bitterly, "because I wasted my high school career saving lives instead of being a normal teenager."

"So, what, you think you've got catching up to do?"

"No," Stiles spits, "I just wanted to enjoy my fucking freedom."

Derek is silent for a while.

"You don't have to be in the pack if you don't want to be," Derek says. "We work better with you, but we'd cope without."

"I don't-" Stiles starts, "Fuck, Derek, that's not what I _meant._ "

"What did you mean?"

He doesn't even sound angry, Stiles thinks, and that doesn't seem fair at all.

"When I'm here, I'm the human, and I'm the breakable one, and it fucking sucks. I just need to be reckless sometimes, okay? I can't be reckless here without endangering my life, or yours, or Scott's or my dad's or anybody's."

"Don't you get it? You could be endangering your life by doing that."

Stiles snorts.

"Seriously? After all of the shit I went through for the pack, obviously it's going to be the people I'm hooking up with in club bathrooms that will be the death of me."

"It could be," Derek says.

Stiles waits for Derek to elaborate on that, but when he doesn't, he just shakes his head and makes to stand.

"Maybe I should go," he says quietly. "I'm not here for you to critique my choices, Derek, and if that's all you have to offer I'll go and find someone else."

"Stiles-" Derek says, but he's cut off by the door of the living room closing. It bursts open again, moments later.

"For fuck's sake, Stiles," Derek says, crowding him against the wall. "I don't want you to sleep with other people. Any, at all, okay? Do you want to know why?"

"I think I can figure that one out myself," Stiles says, eyes on Derek's lips, on the barely-there space between them.

"So you'll stop sleeping around, then?" Derek asks, and he sounds so fucking _hopeful._

Stiles glares at him. "If this is some new way you're going to manipulate me with-"

"It's not. I promise." 

Stiles swallows. Derek looks at him kindly.

"I wouldn't do that," Derek says firmly.

Stiles nods.

"So you will?"

"I will, yeah. No more casual sex for Stiles. Promise."

Derek smiles at him.

"We should, um," Stiles says, "watch that movie?" 

Derek frowns, looking a little confused. "Now?"

"I'll even let you watch Iron Man," Stiles says, and Derek takes a step back.

Stiles has air around him again, Stiles can fucking breathe. This is like heaven. (He's reasonably sure that's not how he should feel, right now, but he's got other things to deal with, like tamping down the panic attack that's rising in his chest.)

"Okay?" Derek says, and Stiles pretends Derek isn't scrutinizing him. 

"Fine," Stiles says, "Just, just give me a minute."

Derek looks confused. Poor bastard. Stiles is confused too, but Stiles is at least in possession of all of the facts.

Derek inches closer to him when he starts gasping for air, and Stiles holds up a hand. "I need - space, Derek," he says, bending his knees and sliding down to the floor. It's not his most graceful move, but then he's crumpled on the floor and trying his hardest not to cry, so maybe grace isn't his priority right now.

"How much space?" Derek asks.

Stiles gasps. Inhale, exhale, he reminds himself. _You know how to breathe, you know how to fight this,_ he tells himself.

He wants to leave this town, he wants to go back to shitty apartment and know in his bones that his only commitment is a pack of werewolves that barely miss him, but he can't have that - won't have that ever again, he thinks. 

He doesn't want to be attached to someone, doesn't want to make promises, doesn't want to _do this,_ except _this_ is apparently a thing with Derek that Stiles has wanted for years, and somehow he's trapped himself with what he wants and doesn't want.

Derek is still hovering uncertainly when Stiles regains the ability to breathe.

"I'm okay," he says, wiping away the tear tracks. "I'm fine."

"Sure," Derek says.

Stiles doesn't say anything, doesn't trust himself to say anything.

"So is that a new thing, or has it happened before?"

"I had them after mom died. They came back about six months ago."

Right around the time Stiles gained a drug addiction and a healthy level of distrust for everyone around him.

"Did something happen?"

Stiles shakes his head. "I'm fine, really, I am, it just happens sometimes."

Derek frowns at him. "You should talk to someone about it."

"No."

"Does your dad know?"

"If you want to get in his good books, telling him his only son is regressing to his mourning period self is not a good idea."

"I wasn't going to tell him, Stiles."

Stiles blinks at him. "Whatever, Derek. I'm tired. I'll see you around, okay?"

"Come to the New Year's party?"

Stiles finds himself nodding without really meaning to. "'Course I will," he says. "I'll be here."

He doesn't know who he's reassuring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted on Thursday, internet willing, and then a third will be posted on Friday.
> 
> Three in a week! I know, it's unprecedented, but I've got to a really exciting bit in the plot and I'm disappearing off next week and this seemed like the best way to break things up.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I adore comments of any kind, even if I don't get around to replying (which again, is usually because I'm finding a way to respond non-awkwardly without spoiling anything.)
> 
> Also I have no idea why Derek likes Iron Man, it just seemed right. And who doesn't love watching Brad Pitt get punched in the face? (My headcanon is that Fight Club is Stiles' all time favourite movie)


	11. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many many MANY continued thanks to Devin. 
> 
> Also, I don't usually do the song rec thing, but a large chunk of this chapter was inspired by Kingsfoil's [Hope Is Still On The Prowl](https://soundcloud.com/kingsfoil/hope-is-still-on-the-prowl) which I also happened to listen to on repeat as I was writing this.
> 
> So you don't have to, it's entirely optional, but that's there for your listening pleasure. (It also happens to be the first song I ever associated with a pairing. It holds a soft spot in my heart.)

The party is - loud. It's not just the pack there - Derek allowed everyone to invite a couple friends from classes, so everyone but Stiles brought a friend or three. Stiles feels a little left out, here on his own, but he figures he has Derek for company.

He finds himself talking in low voices to Derek on the porch, as music blasts from Derek's house. He's a little surprised Derek is willing to leave a bunch of underage co-eds with a ton of alcohol in his house without supervision, but it means Stiles actually gets to see Derek which is, well, nice.

They don't mention the panic attack, or whatever's going on between them. They talk around it, and argue about movies, and it's just, y'know, _nice._

"You want to dance?" Stiles asks, eventually.

Derek shakes his head. "Not tonight."

"C'mon, you had fun at Jungle, right?" Stiles finds himself wheedling.

Derek cracks a half smile. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, before," he says, a little stiffly, and Stiles knows exactly what he's talking about it.

"It wasn't you," Stiles says quietly, assured that Derek will hear him regardless. "I freaked out, that's all."

"What about?"

Stiles shuts his eyes and breathes in through his nose. When he opens them, Derek is staring at him, still waiting. "I just didn't know how to deal with having a reason to come back to Beacon Hills."

He wonders if Derek will notice that he doesn't call it home any more.

"You should come back for Scott, and Lydia, and your dad," Derek says.

Stiles sighs. "I know." 

"But you don't want to?"

"It's not that, it's just-" Stiles trails off, frustrated. "I don't know how to say it, okay?"

"Just say it, Stiles."

Stiles shakes his head, and stands up. "I'm gonna go inside, dance with Lydia or something. You can come if you want," he says, and tries hard not to make it sound like he's begging Derek to forget this entire conversation happened. He's not sure if he succeeds.

"I'll be in in a minute," Derek says, leaning back against the bench. Stiles nods, and after a moment of just _looking_ at Derek, he leaves.

He dances with Lydia, like he said he would, and then she opens her mouth and he knows she's going to ask something difficult, so he shakes his head.

And Lydia knows him well enough to just drop it, and leave him be. 

Scott, though, Scott's been watching him too closely all evening, and Stiles wants to ask him about it but Derek has actually entered the room now, and he wants Derek to dance, he wants to prove to Derek that he can cope with this.

It's silly, and a little petty, but he wants it so much. Just for Derek to know that he's not some pathetic, weak child. That he's not _broken._

They do dance, as it turns out, and it's even fucking better than it was in Jungle, even though Danny is _totally judging him._ They're close, close enough for their breaths to mingle, and the bass is loud and Stiles feels like he could fucking live forever, right now. 

When Stiles stops for a drink, an hour before midnight, Lydia tugs him aside and asks him what the fuck he thinks he's doing. 

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Derek, you dick," she says, and she's grinning wide. "You guys are screwing, right?"

Stiles snorts out a laugh. "No. Not yet," he says, then remembers werewolf hearing. "Or something," he adds. 

Lydia quirks an eyebrow. She'd been the one he'd told about losing his virginity, and she knows more than anyone else about all the really good sex he's been having (namely, that he's been having it), so it's understandable that she's a little skeptical.

"Are you dating him, Stiles Stilinski?"

Stiles twists his mouth into a wry smile. "Not yet," he says. Lydia's eyes sparkle.

"You sound optimistic," she says, and she sounds pleased, and Stiles remembers how worried she'd been about all the weight loss.

He nods. "Can I go back and dance now?" He asks, and she nods.

"You better get laid for me," she yells after him, and Stiles knows she's missing Jackson right now.

He won't, he doesn't think. The sex that may happen with Derek isn't going to happen in the immediate future, and Stiles is oddly okay with that. He's just enjoying himself tonight, and yeah, he can't do that sober any more, but that doesn't make it any less worthwhile. At least, he's almost convinced himself of that.

It was hard to remind himself of that with a needle in his arm before coming, but he's pretty sure of it now, so that's fine.

He returns to the porch, aching for a smoke, and lights a cigarette. He's alone out here now; alone with his thoughts, an idea he's not sure he likes, and the cold bites through his layers. He cradles the cigarette in his hand, breathes in tar and knows his mouth will taste like shit in the morning.

He's pretty okay with that, though, because right now this feels good.

He feels alive, which is what he's always shooting for when he does this, when he goes out, and he's alive and he's surrounded by his friends and that's an entirely new experience.

He loses track of time a bit, so when Lydia drags him indoors and explains that Derek looks mopey and it's ten fucking minutes til midnight, he's surprised.

It's dark in the living room, the music volume lowered and the TV turned on. Stiles spots Derek leaning against a wall (they'd moved the sofas for the party, apparently), and decides to join them. He doesn't want to dance, he just wants to be here with Derek, see the new year through.

He doesn't have any resolutions this year, though he knows Derek does. Stiles knows not to make promises he can't keep, so he just plain hasn't made any at all.

They're standing, elbow to elbow, in silence, and Stiles thinks, _wow, this should be so fucking weird,_ but it's not, because it's him and Derek, and they can just do this. 

He leans his head on Derek's shoulder, feeling the warmth through the thin henley Derek's wearing (some things never change). 

"I'm tired," he says, and Derek grunts. 

He reaches down and intertwines his fingers with Derek's, who stiffens. They're _holding hands_ , and Derek is uncomfortable. It's a little ridiculous.

"You're drunk," Derek says quietly. 

"I only had one beer," Stiles says.

Derek doesn't respond, so Stiles tilts his head up to look at him. Derek's looking down at him through his lashes, and something unspoken passes between them. 

"You like me," Stiles says, and Derek smiles. 

"I do," Derek says.

Stiles grins.

The countdown starts in the background, and Stiles is dimly aware of it as Derek turns to look at him. Their hands are still clasped, and Stiles brings his free hand up to rest against Derek's cheek as the countdown inches lower.

When the Times Square ball drops, Stiles presses his lips against Derek's in a chaste, gentle offering.

Derek takes it and fucking runs with it. 

For a minute, maybe more, Stiles' world reduces to the feel of stubble against his skin, and the taste of Derek's mouth on his. 

Derek's flushed red when they part, and the music has started again, and Stiles doesn't give a shit about any of it. 

He tugs on Derek's neck (and he has no idea how his hands ended up there), and brings him back, close to him. Stiles needs to touch, but he's dimly aware that there are people here and taking Derek's clothes off might be a little inappropriate.

This time, when they break apart, Stiles can see Erica giving him a thumbs up over Derek's shoulder. Isaac looks faintly pleased, and Lydia seems pretty happy too.

Scott is nowhere to be seen, but Stiles has more important things on his mind.

"They're happy for us," Stiles tells Derek when Derek shoots him a quizzical look.

Derek shrugs, as if he's not sure why anyone would care about his relationship status (which, yes, Stiles is so updating on that facebook profile he never fucking uses). 

"So," Stiles says, leaning back, arms still linked around Derek's neck. "Where are you taking me for our first date?"

There's a pause.

"You okay?" Stiles asks, when he gets no response.

Derek frowns. "Are _you_ okay?"

Stiles wants to sigh, to express his aggravation, he really really does. 

"Never better," he says, falsely bright, and he knows as soon as he's said it that it's the wrong tone to use.

Because it's true, but Derek can't hear that. Derek has to rely on the same senses as everyone else, and he thinks Stiles is lying, or being flippant.

"Hey, hey," Stiles says quietly, "I'm good, really, I am."

Derek concedes with a nod.

"I'm taking you to the movies," he says, eventually, and Stiles grins.

His skin itches, like he wants to escape, but he's not going to listen to that right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When she read this, Devin went "I WAS STUPIDLY GRINNING LIKE A FIVE YEAR OLD WATCHING HER FAVORITE DISNEY MOVIE" and I hope you had a similar reaction because look! A Good Thing finally happened to Stiles!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> (if you follow me on tumblr, this was the chapter that I was whining about putting so much pressure on to write it correctly so it took me about two weeks (and three rewrites).)
> 
> Next chapter will be up tomorrow, followed by a ten day hiatus.


	12. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Devin for betaing - all remaining errors are my own, of course.

It's nearly 1am when Stiles untangles himself from Derek to get some fresh air. Or, some less than fresh air. He needs a cigarette, and he aches for a little space. He's not used to this, to physical contact that doesn't involve sex.

It's fine, it is, it's just an adjustment.

He's taking his first drag when Scott appears at his elbow, which makes him jump and choke, which is just plain fucking embarrassing. 

"Where were you, dude, you've been gone for like the last hour?" Stiles asks, when he recovers from his coughing fit. Scott scowls at the cigarette in his hand, and shrugs.

"You and Derek," Scott says, eventually. 

"Me and Derek," Stiles says, not exactly confirmation, but in a tone that suggests agreement if nothing else.

Scott looks... concerned, which is not the reaction Stiles was expecting, and a little frustrated. 

"We're gonna go on a date," Stiles says, after Scott's silence has been long enough to officially weird Stiles out. Stiles has always been the more talkative of the two in their friendship but that doesn't mean Scott's been a silent partner or anything. This is just plain fucking out of character.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Scott says.

Stiles stares at Scott. "No, I'm not, but that's really not any of your fucking business."

"It might be, Stiles, if you screw this all up."

Stiles throws his hands in the air. "What are you talking about? I have no intention of screwing anything up!"

Scott frowns again. "When are you going to tell Derek what you're hiding?"

"What's your problem? Why are you pushing this?"

"I just want to know when you're going to come _clean,_ Stiles," Scott says, and Stiles flinches away from the word clean, because he's seen the calculating look in Scott's face, and Scott _knows._

Scott can be a genius when he wants to be, and Stiles has never hated him more for it.

"I promised I'd talk after New Years," Stiles says quietly.

"Really? You're going to tell us all, everything?"

Stiles swallows. "You have no fucking right-"

"You're ruining your life, Stiles, are you that fucking blind?"

"You went snooping. You fucking went into my room, and now you think you know it fucking all, don't you?" Stiles spits, and they're yelling, properly screaming at each other now, and any minute now someone else is going to come and find them out on the porch, and find them yelling at each other and the pieces are going to fall together and everything is going to be ruined. 

"Yeah, I did, because you're my friend, and I'm worried about you."

"What do I have to do to get you to stop being my friend, then?" Stiles yells, "What do I have to do to get you to stay out of my business?"

"I'm not going to stop until you start seeing some sense, Stiles, Jesus," Scott says, and he sounds so sincere that Stiles wants to punch him in his stupid fucking mouth.

"I'm fine," Stiles insists, a little childishly.

Scott looks sad when he opens his mouth. "Stiles, you're shaking."

"I'm not," he says, clenching his fists. "I'm fine, and you're not going to involve anyone else in this. You're not going to breathe a word of it to Derek, or to Lydia, or to my dad or to anyone, okay?"

"You're an addict, you need help," Scott pleads, but Stiles shakes his head and takes a step back.

"I don't want any help from you," Stiles says, and Scott looks like maybe that was the final blow.

"Then maybe," Scott says slowly, "you shouldn't be involved in any pack business."

Stiles blinks at him. 

"Okay," he says, "and you can explain that to Derek for me. I'll see you next Christmas."

"Stiles, that wasn't what I meant," Scott tries, but Stiles turns away.

He's okay to drive, but the thought of climbing in his Jeep right now is enough to drive him insane, so he walks into the forest, ignoring Scott shouting after him. If Scott thought it would do any good, Scott could follow him, but clearly he's come to the same conclusion as Stiles - that Stiles is a lost cause.

It's a little bitter to be leaving Derek behind - especially now, when they've finally got their shit together, Stiles thinks. A pack of cigarettes is clutched loosely in his fist, but what he needs, really, is to shoot up, and it's not even like he has to go all the way home to do it. He's been keeping his stash in his glove box these last few days (and that's probably how Scott figured it out), but he's had such a good evening until now, until the drugs ruined fucking everything, that he's not ready to give in yet. 

It takes Stiles the rest of the pack of cigarettes to gather the courage to walk back to the Jeep and drive home, and by then it's almost two. When he gets to the house, people are spilling out like the party is over, so Stiles is at least grateful that he won't be too conspicuous.

When he looks up at the house for what's probably the last time for a long time, he sees Derek standing in the doorway, watching him. He looks worried, but not confused, which leaves Stiles wondering how much Scott has filled him in on.

Stiles tries not to hate him for it, but it's hard.

It's probably for the best, anyway, or that's what he tells himself as he pulls away down the dirt track.

The Jeep rattles a little in her old age, and Stiles lets himself be distracted a little by the sounds she makes. He wonders how Derek feels, right now, since Derek doesn't have much of a vice or a distraction any more.

He's pretty certain the pack will look out for him, though, if he even cares at all.

(Stiles doesn't know who he's trying to kid - it's obvious Derek's going to be hurt by Stiles leaving, just like that, on the evening when they finally seem to have it together.)

He thinks that if Derek is really that upset, Erica will be out baying for his blood in the morning, and that Scott will probably let her.

He thinks maybe he shouldn't even wait til then. He should pack his bags tonight, and say goodbye to his father in a note, and just drive.

If he leaves now he'll get there by noon, and he'll be able to sign up for shifts and be back to work in two days time.

Composing the note will be the hardest part, he thinks, as he pulls into his driveway.

He looks up at his childhood home and he feels nauseous for all of the things he's ruined and broken and made awful.

He takes his stash out of his glove box and upstairs, and he lines the window with mountain ash (because you never know) and he locks his bedroom door, and he thinks - this is it. I'm never coming back.

It stings, but only like the prick of the needle as it goes in his arm, and he has to search harder and harder to find a vein, and he doesn't even notice he's crying until he's packing things into a suitcase and a tear drops off his chin. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and breathes, deeply. 

He's on version 3 of the note to his dad in his head and it isn't getting any easier. 

Version 3.1 is a slight improvement but his hand is still shaking too much to write (he wonders a little that he drove home like this, without even noticing.)

There's a knock on the window but he ignores it, and the blinds are down, and he won't feel guilty about this, no matter who it is. 

There's another know, a minute or two later, and a third knock after a five minute gap. 

There's nothing more after that, and Stiles tells himself he's pleased that whoever it was has given up on him.

Or decided to come through the front door, but that seems unlikely. His dad is sleeping, and his friends (if he can really call them his friends, given how badly he's treated them) know not to wake him, on pain of death.

His note, eventually composed, and scribbled out with terrible handwriting on a scrap of paper, is left on the kitchen table, along with his house key. He's not coming back. He doesn't think he can.

He loads the Jeep up with his bag, and then he just drives.

He can't stay in Beacon Hills.

It hasn't felt like home for a while, but now he'd rather be anywhere but here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Okay, these last two chapters I've been referring to as "the pivotal scenes" in my head for the last like, month. Whatever. Shit just got real, okay?
> 
> Anyway! Third update of the week! I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> The reason for three updates this week is that I'm going skiing(!) in Italy(!) tomorrow, and I won't be back until Sunday 31st March. I do have the next chapter written, and I've sent it to Devin already, so hopefully I can get that up on April 1st, although being that it's Easter Monday family things might take over a bit.
> 
> So, no promises, but I'll try not to take too long a break. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! And sorry for ending it on an angsty note. Especially after the last chapter was so happy.


	13. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extended hiatus! 
> 
> Many continued thanks to Devin for beta-ing this, and for being generally awesome. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.

Stiles can't really remember the two days following his return from Beacon Hills. It's a bit of a blur, but he's pretty sure he has sex more than once (and there's a faint sense of alarm in the back of his head - it sounds like Derek), and he doesn't come down at all.

It's sort of nice, but not really. When he starts properly existing again, he feels sticky and tired and awful, and his sheets are crusty, which means he was excessively stupid and brought someone back to his place.

Whoever he was has left now, though, which is something to be at least a little bit grateful for. 

His mouth tastes fucking disgusting, and he thinks that maybe he vomited at some point, which means he was drinking, or something, at some point.

He's not sure he really wants to know.

It takes a while before he's fully aware of himself. He's grateful, at least, that he hadn't set a specific date for returning, so he doesn't have any imminent shifts at the shop coming up. When he's something close to fully functioning, he finally registers the knocking on the door.

It's not for him - or if it is, it'll be Scott, and Stiles doesn't want to see Scott, possibly ever again.

"Stiles!" The person knocking shouts, sounding distressingly like Derek.

Stiles swallows, his throat oily. 

What the fuck.

"I know you're in there, Stiles."

Stiles wonders if Scott told Derek, if he's here for an intervention or some stupid interfering shit. He thinks if he waits long enough, Derek will leave him to stew in his own filth for a little longer.

That would be nice, Stiles thinks. He's pretty sure he hasn't showered since he left Beacon Hills. 

"I'm going to break the door down," Derek helpfully informs him, and Stiles tumbles out of bed because he cannot afford to lose his deposit. Like, at all.

"I'm fucking coming!" he yells, and grabs the nearest item of clothing - a grey t-shirt that is, oh shit, not his.

He wonders if Derek will notice, decides he will, and then decides it's probably better this way. 

He opens the door to an irate Derek, who immediately starts talking.

"You ran off," Derek says, "You had an argument with Scott, you ran out into the forest, and then you drove yourself home and disappeared back here in the morning."

Stiles nods.

Derek's nostrils flare.

"You stink of sex," he says.

Stiles can't think of anything to do but nod. 

"Did _I_ do something to offend you?" Derek asks, and Stiles flinches.

"It's not you," he says quietly. "It's nothing like that."

Stiles wonders if Derek can tell whether or not he's lying. He can't really remember the last time he shot up, has no idea how long he's been sober for, if he's even sober at all.

"What the fuck, Stiles." Derek says flatly.

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Are you going to keep me on your doorstep while you're not talking about it?"

Stiles waves his arm idly at their kitchen. He hasn't spent an awful lot of time in here, but nobody else is around so he follows Derek to the table.

Stiles waits for Derek to say something else. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if he wants to say anything to twist his way out of this. Words just plain aren't fucking working for him anymore. 

"You promised you'd tell me after New Years."

Stiles swallows again, remembers how foul his mouth tastes, thinks about getting a glass of water.

"I lied," he says eventually. 

Derek doesn't say anything, so Stiles stands up again.

"You want a drink?" he asks, reaching for a glass. His shirt rides up a little, and he watches Derek track the movement. 

Derek shakes his head mutely. "You don't trust me," he says, as Stiles turns the tap on. 

"It's not about trust," Stiles says. It's only mostly a lie, he thinks, as he takes a sip from his glass. 

"Then what is it about? You have to give me something!"

Stiles shuts his eyes, and breathes, and thinks about things that hurt slightly less than this.

"It's about bad decisions," he says, "it's about why I'm not living in a college dorm, and it's about me not being able to do relationships."

"You dropped out of college?" Derek asks.

"I dropped out of college. Please don't tell my dad."

Derek smiles, but it looks a little sour. "I won't tell your dad."

"Thanks," Stiles says. 

"Am I allowed to ask why?"

"Nope, not today. Not for a while. Maybe not ever."

"Is it to do with the other bad decisions you've made?"

Stiles' shoulders droop, a little. "Oh man," he says, "you have no fucking idea. So many bad decisions."

Derek is smiling softly at him. "If you come back to Beacon Hills, we can work on it, whatever it is, together," he says. 

"You don't fucking get it, Derek. I can't just flick a switch and go home and everything will magically be o-fucking-kay! It doesn't work like that!"

"I was just-"

"No, Derek, you don't get to do that. You don't get to make promises you can't keep, you don't get to do any of that. We're not together."

"We could've been, if you'd even tried!"

"Oh, right, yeah, you promised me a fucking movie date. How fucking wonderful, Derek. I don't give a shit. We weren't together, we can't be, we won't be."

"I thought-"

"You thought wrong, whatever you thought, Derek, we were together for one night and you know what? That's the longest fucking relationship I've ever had, so it's no surprise that I ruined it."

"You didn't ruin anything, would you just fucking listen to me?" 

"I don't want to hear your bullshit, Derek. I don't care. It's over. Go back to Beacon Hills, and leave me alone."

"I don't want to, Stiles. I've never wanted to just leave you alone. We have skype dates! Everybody knows that's what they are!"

Stiles shuts his eyes.

"I don't want you here," he says quietly. "Can you leave because I asked you to, at least?"

"I'm not going to stop asking you why," Derek says. "You have to explain it to me. Using simple words."

"The panic attack," Stiles starts.

He blinks, setting the words in order in his head.

"The panic attack was a symptom of a larger problem. I don't want to talk about it, but I'm not coming back, and I'm not going to be your boyfriend or whatever it is that you're looking for."

"At this point," Derek says drily, "I would settle for you actually being my friend."

"I've been shitty. None of this is news to me."

"I'm willing to stick around, if you need help with anything," Derek says, and Stiles can hear the offer in his voice.

"It's not something that can just _be fixed_ ," Stiles says, gesturing frustratedly.

He immediately realizes his mistake, when Derek zeroes in on the track marks. 

"You're an addict," Derek says flatly. "What is it, coke? Heroin? Some combination of the two?"

Stiles swallows. 

"None of your business. Get out."

"You're ruining your life over this? Some stupid drug which what, makes it a little bit easier cope with being promiscuous? Fuck, Stiles, are you some kind of whore?"

"You're a fucking asshole, Derek, don't even try that 'let's be friends' bullshit. I fucking knew you'd judge, didn't I? And you didn't fucking listen and you wouldn't fucking leave!"

"And you're an addict and a lowlife."

"I'm not some thug! I'm not the one who resorts to violence when I don't get my way, I'm not the one who corrupted a bunch of fucking teenagers."

"That was fucking years ago, and you know it."

Stiles doesn't know when Derek stood up, or when they started shouting, but there's a polite cough from the kitchen door.

"You okay, Stiles?" Michael says, and Stiles blinks at him. _What the fuck._

Stiles waves a hand distractedly at him. "Derek was just leaving," he says. Michael nods slowly. 

"Do you want me to leave you to it?"

Stiles nods. "Please," he says, eyes on Derek. 

They're staring at each other, the kitchen cold and awkward as Michael's footsteps fade away.

"You're destroying your life."

Stiles laughs. "That's what Scott said."

"Do you even care that you've chosen the drugs over everyone who's ever given a shit about you? Does that make a difference to you at all?"

Stiles feels tears prickling at the edge of his eyes, but he wills them away. "Why do you think I tried, over Christmas? Or did you not notice that at all?"

"For all I know you just wanted my money for the next hit," Derek snarls, and wow, it's like they've regressed to when Stiles was sixteen.

"Well I guess you'll be thrilled to know I want nothing to do with you any more," Stiles says. "Would you please just fucking leave?" 

Derek nods.

"I'll tell Lydia not to bother you then?" he asks, as a parting shot. 

"Funnily enough, I'm pretty sure I can trust Lydia not to be a total _dick_ ," Stiles spits, and slams the door behind Derek.

When he's wondering what he has to do to actually cry, now that he's alone and ready for it, there's a knock on his bedroom door.

"Boyfriend?" Michael asks. Stiles snorts.

"He's a dick," he says.

Michael considers this. "The two aren't mutually exclusive," he says, which draws a small smile from Stiles.

"Yeah, okay," he concedes.

"Are you alright?" Michael asks, sounding a little more serious. 

Stiles nods and shrugs at the same time. 

"Don't - Don't do anything stupid, please," Michael says, and Stiles knows exactly what he's not referring to.

He swallows. "I'll try," he says.

He keeps making promises he's not sure if he can keep. It's becoming something of a curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Wow. Derek's kind of an asshole but then Stiles is too so it all works out fine in the end. (Hah.)
> 
> I've got about half the next chapter written, so hopefully it'll be up on next Monday, though I make no promises. I'm having a bit of a block on this one, at the moment.
> 
> I'm [elpemmy](http://elpemmy.tumblr.com) on tumblr so feel free to follow me over there. Now that my buffer is literally non existent there will be no spoilers. Although I do whine about my plot dilemmas a lot.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments are love <3


	14. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, new chapter!
> 
> Many continued thanks for Devin for betaing, and to you all for sticking with me thus far!

Derek doesn't come back. Stiles thinks he's grateful for it, but he doesn't really remember. The days start to blur together.

When Erica calls, he realises he can't remember the last time he ate. She's got more important things on her mind, though.

"What the fuck did you do to Derek?" she says, and she sounds half worried and half furious. Stiles is fond of Erica, always has been, but he doesn't know how to deal with her, or any of this shit, not really.

"I didn't-" Stiles starts, but she cuts him off.

"We know he came to see you, he asked Scott for your address, and now he's furious and won't talk to anyone. What did you say, Stiles?"

"I told him the truth, and he accused me of stringing him along for his money," Stiles says, trying desperately to remain calm and in control. It's not quite the truth, but it's an approximation, so it'll do.

"Were you? Do you need money?"

"No, I fucking wasn't, Erica, Jesus!"

"Then why is he so mad, Stiles? What did you do?"

Stiles sighs. "I don't want to get into it. It's none of your business, and it's not really any of his business."

"You're pack, and you were acting weird. He was worried about you. We all are," she says, sounding a little kinder.

"Well, you don't have to be, because I'm not pack any more," Stiles says. "If you can pass the message on to Scott to not hand out my address that would be great, thanks."

He doesn't wait for Erica's response before hanging up. He's tired, he's fucking exhausted. He can't remember the last time he ate or slept, and he thinks, vaguely, that it really doesn't fucking matter.

He could die and he's driven away all of the people that care about him.

There's a kind of safety in knowing that, in knowing that the worst could happen and it still wouldn't hurt anyone but him. It's comforting that he's already caused them the most pain he possible could, and know he's cut all ties.

He has friends out here, friends who aren't part of the pack. They're not good friends, they're not reliable people. They don't care that Stiles is a drug addict, but it's not like he's completely alone and that has to count for something. It means he's worth something more than just the weak human of the pack. It means he exists in a circle other than theirs.

His coworkers are decent people, too, and they need him. Like, right fucking now, because he's already late for his shift.

Fucking Erica. (It doesn't matter that she called an hour ago, he's so completely fucked off with the whole situation that he's not really paying attention to the passage of time, it's rapidly getting away from him and he hates that, hates that he has literally no control any more).

His legs feel weak beneath him as he races to his shift, and his coworker, Sandy, tuts at him.

"When was the last time you slept?" She asks, as he tugs on an apron. He frowns.

"I lost track," he says, and she looks worried. 

"You lost weight, too," she points out, helpfully, and he rolls his eyes at her and starts helping customers. 

They have an easy sync, him and Sandy, and so the queue that had been forming when he was running late dissipates fairly quickly, and the coffee shop fills with a buzz of chatter.

Stiles' hands are shaking. He had a hit before Erica called, he thinks, but he's not sure. He doesn't feel sick, or anything, so he figures he's fine for a bit. 

He wants somebody to distract him, to keep him awake. Sandy tries, at least.

"So did you have a big night last night, or something?" She asks, and Stiles thinks.

He hasn't been out clubbing since right before Derek came and ruined everything, he thinks. He doesn't know how he fills his hours but the float away from him, so he must be doing something, even if it's nothing worthwhile.

"Not really," he shrugs. "Just couldn't sleep." 

It's true, and everything. He's given up on trying now, anyways.

She scrutinizes him, but whatever she sees she must decide it's not worth the effort, because she shrugs. "Should go to a doctor," she says noncommittally, "get some pills or something."

Stiles snorts. "I doubt that'll help, sorry Sandy."

"Not a fan of medication?"

Stiles shrugs. "Not a fan of doctors," he says, and that's true for so many reasons - for his mother and the symptoms he won't be able to hide, and while he loves Mrs McCall, he's never gotten over that one sit down talk he'd had with his mother's doctor. 

There's another rush of customers to distract them, and even when they're done with that, there's an idle silence in the air. 

"You should take tomorrow off, get some sleep," Sandy says. 

"Need the money," Stiles says, twisting his mouth wryly. Sandy doesn't buy it, he thinks, but it was worth a try.

"What for?" She asks.

He shrugs, and the motion, small as it is, makes him feel lightheaded all of a sudden.

He doesn't hear Sandy check if he's okay, because holy shit he needs to sit down right fucking now. It feels a little like headrush, and it's completely overwhelming.

He's dimly aware of white lights behind his eyes, though he doesn't know when they shut, and the sound of quiet voices that weren't there a moment ago.

He opens his eyes and, yep, he's not in the coffee shop any more. He's in a fucking hospital bed, which, wow, not okay, he doesn't have insurance and he's going to get in so much shit for this, and they'll push rehab on him and he can't afford that.

He can't afford any of this, especially not the exhausted looking Sheriff by his bedside.

"Stiles," his father says, when Stiles doesn't immediately say anything. His mouth is utterly dry. He wonders how long he was out for.

"Hi, dad," Stiles says weakly.

His dad sits forward in his plastic hospital chair. "Are you even aware of how much weight you've lost?" He asks. "Are you even aware of what you're doing to yourself?"

Stiles closes his eyes. "I've been filled in by Derek and Scott, but thanks for offering."

"How long-" his dad starts, before his voice fails him. His second attempt goes a little better; "How long have you been doing drugs?"

Stiles can't breathe, not really; not when he has to have this horrifying conversation. "Recreationally... since last February."

"How long have you been addicted, Stiles? How long have you been hiding this from me?"

"May."

The Sheriff sighs, exhausted, and Stiles does a full body flinch. He never meant for his dad to sound like that.

"That's why you didn't come home, last summer," his dad guesses. "Does Derek Hale have anything to do with this?"

Stiles shakes his head. "He only found out on, uh, January 3rd?"

His dad blinks at him. "What date is it today, son?"

"I have no idea."

"January 12th."

Stiles tries to hide his surprise, but he's pretty sure he fails. 

"Can you remember the last proper meal you had?"

Stiles shakes his head. 

"Jesus, Stiles," his dad says, and he can't bring himself to disagree. 

The curtain around their little interrogation is pulled aside, and a nurse with a clipboard - a nurse that Stiles recognizes, damn, walks in. 

"Stiles," Michael says, "How are you feeling?"

"You should discharge me, because I'm fine," Stiles says, and yes, he's aware he sounds petulant.

"You're on drip feeding because you're malnourished," Michael says, "And I'm going to have to recommend some rehabilitation facilities."

"You know I don't have insurance," Stiles says.

"You've been admitted before?" His Dad asks, and Stiles shakes his head.

"This is my roommate, Michael. Michael, this is my dad."

"And he knows about your problem," his dad states.

"Yeah," Stiles says, and doesn't elaborate, because he doesn't have a fucking clue what to say. 

"Mr Stilinski," Michael says, "I understand that this is difficult, but Stiles needs help, from a counselor in a environment that can cope with his addiction. I really would recommend rehab."

"Don't even think about it, Dad, we can't afford it," Stiles says vehemently.

Stiles is summarily ignored. 

"Do you have any information we could read?" 

Michael looks between the two of them. "I can get you some brochures, yes."

His dad nods, and silence falls gain.

Stiles hates it, hates that he's put his father in this position.

Hates that he's coming down, hard, and he's started shaking and he doesn't want to be here, or anywhere at all, really.

He hates, too, that he doesn't have a choice in whether or not he gets clean, now. 

He wants to shoot up, he needs another hit, badly. He can't deal with anything like this, he's strung out and wrecked and miserable.

He can't deal with his dad and the guilt they both feel; he can't deal with that at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Everything in Stiles' life has snowballed and gone horribly wrong.
> 
> So I've figured out where the plot is going (at last) and it looks like it's going to be roughly four more chapters, although one of those will be the epilogue which is going to be extra long.
> 
> Currently, doing updates on Mondays seems to work fairly well, but there's no guarantee of regularity, especially since I'm going back to school on Wednesday to start preparing for the most terrifying set of exams I have ever faced. I will try to keep updates once a week, but yeah, I make no promises.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments are love, and I'm [elpemmy](http://elpemmy.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


	15. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many continued thanks to Devin for betaing, and to Alex for encouraging me, even if she didn't know it.

Stiles is told the rules on the long, awkward journey home. His dad's driving the jeep, hands at ten and two position, and he hasn't looked at Stiles since he was discharged.

It hurts, but Stiles has had worse.

"I'm not sending you to rehab," his dad says, "I could, but I'd rather have you home with me to get better."

His dad pauses, focuses on the road. "I'm going to set some ground rules, and they can be negotiated on depending on your progress."

"The Jeep stays in the garage from now on," his dad says, "you're not allowed to drive. The only friends I would allow you to see are Scott and Lydia, and since they're both in college where they're supposed to be, no visitors. Especially Derek Hale."

Stiles nods, numbly.

"Melissa is going to come by and keep an eye on you sometimes, make sure you're eating properly," his dad says, and Stiles thinks that he should be more upset about this, that his life is now everybody's business.

He doesn't care about the humiliation, right now, all he wants is the sting of the needle.

"If it doesn't work out," his dad says slowly, "if you can't play by the rules, you have to understand that I don't have a choice. Under the eyes of the law, you're an adult, and what you're doing to yourself is illegal."

Stiles swallows. He's known this was coming, too, but it still stings to hear it.

"I can't bend the rules for you," he finishes, "not on this."

Stiles waits for another rule or restriction. He waits to be told that there's a lock on his window and his bedroom door's been removed. There's a silence, long enough to be uncomfortable.

"Would you just, say something, please?"

His dad sounds so fucking tired and Stiles hates himself, hates that this is what he's done to his father. 

"You don't have to take responsibility for me," Stiles says quietly. 

"You're my son, Stiles," his dad says, "I've been taking responsibility every time you screwed up since you were dumb kid, including all of the times you showed up on crime scenes with Derek Hale and no explanation."

"You're not going to get a return on your investment, Dad," Stiles says dully. "I'm never gonna be the good kid you want me to be."

"I don't want you to be the perfect kid," his dad says, still staring straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel tightly. 

Stiles slumps in his seat. He doesn't have anything to say, but he's not sure he really needs to say anything, given how utterly furious his dad is.

Stiles shuts his eyes. "I would've been fine," he says.

His dad snorts. "I got a call from the hospital asking me if I was your father and if I could come because my son had collapsed, possibly of exhaustion or malnutrition. I arrived to find that you're also a drug addict, and a college dropout, no less. Were you ever going to tell me?"

"It's not like I was majoring in anything particularly career friendly," Stiles mutters.

"It's not like you need a career if you're dead," his dad shoots back, and Stiles winces. 

"I've never OD'd," Stiles says.

"That's a lie," his dad tells him. "Michael told me what happened after Thanksgiving."

"You're on first name terms with my roommate already," Stiles says flatly.

His dad checks his mirrors, indicates, switches lanes. "I had to negotiate how you would be removed from your lease."

"If I hadn't stopped eating, you wouldn't know, none of this would matter, and I would still have control over my life!"

"Do you call having a seizure being in control of your life, Stiles? Because that does not fit my definition."

Stiles doesn't respond.

His dad huffs a sigh, and takes a hand off the steering wheel to rub over his face.

"I just worry about you, kid," he says, eventually.

"You have to let go eventually," Stiles offers, and his dad nods.

"I don't think it's gonna happen any time soon," his dad says drily. "Not with the way things have been going."

Stiles looks at his lap.

His hands start to shake, and he thinks, _oh,_ because this is when the withdrawal really sets in, he guesses. He can't remember his last hit, but he knows it was more than a day ago, maybe before his work shift.

He's not totally certain how long he was even in hospital for, but he figures that doesn't really matter now. 

"You okay?" His dad asks.

Stiles frowns. "I feel kind of sick," he says, "and I'm shaking."

"This happen before?"

"The shaking, not the nausea," Stiles says. 

"I have a pamphlet," his dad says, "it's in the back, I can pull over."

"Keep driving," Stiles says, and he can't for the life of him figure out why. He just wants to stay on this road, get home to his bed, to somewhere safe, as soon as possible.

"Can we turn the heat up?" He asks, "I'm really cold."

His dad nods, and Stiles reaches over to twist the knob, turn the heating on full blast, because he's got chills running down his spine and this is like when he had the flu when he was 14, and the whole thing is so fucking surreal Stiles wants to cry. 

"We're about 45 minutes out of Beacon Hills," his dad says, and Stiles nods.

He's not sure what he's done, exactly, to deserve a father who's so fucking forgiving and understanding and willing to make the effort. Stiles can name friends whose parents have abandoned them for far less, and it hurts, a little bit, that he's such a shitty person but he's got his dad right there, forever willing to lend a hand.

He must've been fucking fantastic in a past life, or something.

They make it home without Stiles throwing up, which is, y'know, nice. Stiles doesn't say anything to his dad as he heads upstairs to bury himself under the covers and not think about anything ever.

Being here, back in Beacon Hills, it feels like the walls are closing in on him. There's a reason it lost it's allure as a place to call home, because he doesn't feel safe here. He feels like he's being watched, and it prickles in his spine even as he knows that his window is locked and lined with mountain ash. 

He tells himself he's safe, but he doesn't believe it. 

He's still shaking, but he also feels tired, deep to his bones. The insomnia, at least, seems to have receded, so he sleeps for fourteen hours, and when he wakes the house is empty.

He needs/craves/wants coke; he feels a little like he's drowning without it, but he doesn't know where to buy in Beacon Hills, and even if he did he doesn't have a car. He thinks about getting a bus to as far as he can go on his scant funds, but finds, abruptly that he has no idea where his wallet is, or if there's even any cash in it. 

He hates this complete lack of control - he hates it more when he finds the note his dad has left him, detailing the date, time and location of the Narcotics Anonymous meeting he's attending next week, apparently.

Suddenly, Stiles is furious and he wants nothing more than to break something. He thinks about the photo frames that fill their house and then he thinks he can't do that, that's sacred, that's special, and he knows it makes little to no sense but he can't do it.

There's a block there, in his brain, and so Stiles does the first thing he can think of, and throws his mobile at the wall.

It breaks into three pieces, and the screen shatters.

It's not like there's anyone Stiles wanted to call anyway.

He dimly remembers an instruction to leave his phone on, for Melissa, when she calls, but he thinks it's too late now, and he thinks maybe it's time to just run, and see who finds him.

He's wondering if Derek would drive him out of state; if Derek's even close to forgiving him yet. He figures it's probably pretty unlikely, but then, he's not sure if he even wants Derek to forgive him. He's still furious, in a way that aches deep in his bones.

He knows he can't expect people to be understanding, to treat him with kid gloves, or to even stick around to make sure he stays alive, but the fact that Derek had promised he'd help, whatever the problem was, and had followed that by being outright cruel, hurts. It hurts deep in his chest, an injury he's not sure he recovered from.

Stiles, now, is pretty sure he loves Derek, as relentlessly futile as that may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Things finally happened. Progress is being made.
> 
> Also! I've never been through cocaine withdrawal, so I have no idea how accurate this is, but I've done so much reading on this since I started writing this (and I hope my parents never check my search history) so I hope there aren't any jarring inaccuracies. 
> 
> Next chapter will be next Monday. Thanks for reading!


	16. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features a six month time jump.
> 
> Many continued thanks to Devin for betaing, and also for pointing out that nobody in America calls a cash register a "till" and that casserole is a terrible meal choice.

Stiles bumps into Derek at the grocery store about a month after he moves into his new place. He still eats most of his meals with his dad or Melissa, so his basket is pretty light and he's about to queue for the checkout when Derek appears.

Apparently he still does that.

Stiles blinks at him, wondering what to say. They haven't spoken since everything went horribly, horribly wrong, and Stiles has no idea how to break that silence. It had been hard enough doing that with Scott, when he'd come home for spring break, and they'd been best friends for as long as Stiles can remember.

Derek, Stiles thinks, doesn't really know him at all.

"You look," Derek pauses, "well."

He sniffs the air, too - it's not very subtle, but a lot of the time Derek is about as subtle as a blunt instrument.

"Thanks," Stiles says. "You look about the same as always."

Derek nods. 

It's, uh, awkward. Stiles doesn't know what to say.

"Do you wanna...?" Stiles asks, gesturing at the register, so Derek starts unloading his items on the conveyor belt, and Stiles wonders if this is all that they've come to, if there will ever _be_ any more than this between them. 

"Pack dinner?" Stiles asks, seeing the sheer volume of food that Derek is unloading. Maybe Stiles should have gone first. It doesn't look like this is going to be a quick trip.

Derek nods. "They're all back from summer break, now," he says, and Stiles wants to say _I know, I've seen them too._

"Yeah," Stiles says, not knowing what else to say. "That must be, um, cool. Nice having them back, and all."

"How does your dad feel about you being back in town?" Derek asks, and Stiles has never known him be uncertain of his words before, not like this. 

"He likes to be able to keep an eye on me," Stiles says, and he thinks it sums up the situation pretty well. "I've got a job at the library now," he says, and he thinks _I have no idea why I'm telling you this._

Derek nods as he pays, starts collecting his bags. Stiles is quick behind the till, only 4 items, and Derek waits for him. 

"I'm sorry," Derek says, "about what I said."

Stiles swallows. "I'm sorry for being a shitty friend," he says, and he thinks about all the other stuff that he hopes will go unsaid. 

"You could come-" Derek says, and then starts, like he didn't mean to say that at all. He looks like he's thinking about it. "To the pack dinner," he says, eventually. "You could come, if you wanted."

"I've got ice cream," Stiles says, gesturing at his carrier bag. "I have to get this home."

"You don't have to," Derek says, "but everybody else will be there around 7."

"I'll think about it," Stiles says, and hopes Derek won't notice the lie for what it is. He already knows he's going to end up going. He misses his _pack._ "Thanks, Derek."

Derek nods at him, then turns and puts his groceries in his car. 

Stiles thinks Derek's apology the whole way home. He thinks about showering before he heads over, then decides that'll be too obvious. He tells himself it's just the same as any other dinner he's had with the pack, except Derek will be there.

It doesn't work.

Stiles had missed Derek, even when he'd been pissed at him, and he has a chance of getting a little bit of that friendship back, even if it comes to nothing more than just that, friends.

Stiles can handle that. 

He gets to Derek's at quarter past seven, and he taps lightly on the door. Scott answers it, and he looks surprised as hell to see Stiles.

"Derek said you weren't coming," Scott opens with, and Stiles snorts a laugh.

"I told him I'd think about it," Stiles says, shrugging. 

Derek appears over Scott's shoulder and makes a what-are-you-waiting-for gesture, and Stiles figures he's already late so they might as well start eating.

He doesn't know where to sit. It hits him, a little bit, that he hasn't done one of these in so long because he spent so much time avoiding everyone and then everything went to hell. He doesn't know what his place is here, any more. Once upon a time, he would have sat by Derek's right hand, between him and Scott, and now that just feels weird. 

He waits for everyone to sit first, and then finds that he's been put in his usual place. 

"Okay?" Scott asks, and Stiles nods.

It's a little weird, actually, being around the whole pack and not having a way to lie to them all. 

They eat spaghetti bolognese, and nobody talks much for the first five minutes. 

"What's it like working at the library?" Derek eventually says.

"Quiet," Stiles says. "It's different to the one I worked at before," he shrugs. 

"You miss the city?" Scott asks. 

Stiles pauses. "I don't think I'd go back now if I could," he says, eventually, though he doesn't know why he feels like that.

"You can't go back?" Derek says, looking inquisitive.

Stiles twists his mouth. "My dad," he starts, trailing off. "We're not quite back to where we were yet."

Scott pats him on the shoulder, passes him another bread roll, which Stiles appreciates. 

The conversation continues around him, people planning their summers. There's months of potential for all of them, Stiles realizes, as Scott plans a road trip with Allison and Derek talks about fixing up another part of the house.

Stiles doesn't have that. He's got schedules and commitments, because he's out in the real world and he's close to standing on his own two feet, even if that standing does involve meals with his dad and weekly Narcotics Anonymous meetings.

"What are your plans, Stiles?" Lydia asks.

"I've got work, and stuff," Stiles says.

Lydia nods. "You must get time off, though? C'mon, Stilinski, you can't keep begging off."

"I don't work Tuesdays," Stiles says, "but I have a meeting in the evening."

"A meeting?" Isaac asks. 

Stiles doesn't have a fucking clue why he's dancing around the subject but he thinks saying the words might feel like having his nails pulled out. "It's one of dad's rules," he settles for instead.

Everybody knows exactly what he's talking about now, he figures, but he doesn't have to say it.

It's as close as he can get to peace of mind. 

"I'm going for a smoke," he says, when everybody's finishes, and rises from the table.

"You didn't quit?" Derek asks, and Stiles blinks at him.

He smiles, but he knows it doesn't really come out properly. "There are limits to my endurance," he says, and then he leaves to sit on the porch and smoke, and if the deja vu tastes like ash it's not that important, is it?

"Derek won't mind if you go," Scott says, dropping down beside him when he's half way through his cigarette.

"No, I like it here. It's just... weird, y'know?"

Scott nods. "The questions don't help, huh?"

"It's called Narcotics Anonymous for a reason," Stiles grumbles, and Scott laughs. 

"You're gonna be fine," Scott says, and he sounds so absolutely certain that Stiles loves him for it. 

"Thanks, bro," Stiles says. 

Somebody knocks on the inside of the screen door, and Stiles twists to see who it is.

Erica kicks the door open, and yells at them, "C'mon, assholes, we're watching a movie."

Erica makes Stiles feel a little more complete. He wants to give her a hug but she'd brush it off, he knows. He's just suddenly overwhelmed by this rush of love for the people who let him back into their lives even after he fucked everything up. 

Even Derek.

Christ, Stiles still loves Derek. 

"What are we watching?" Stiles asks, climbing to his feet and throwing away his cigarette butt. 

Derek appears behind Erica, watching Stiles with a smirk on his face. "Fight Club," he says, and that's how Stiles knows all is forgiven. 

"We never did get around to watching A Knight's Tale," he muses as he settles on a sofa.

"When were we going to watch that?" Isaac asks, and Derek and Stiles glance at each other.

Erica smirks. "I bet I know what distracted you, too."

"Bet you don't," Stiles says, because that particular incident was interrupted by a panic attack. It wasn't his best moment, Stiles is more than willing to admit.

"We can watch it some other time," Derek says, and Stiles knows that this offer is extended to him, and him alone.

Stiles nods. "Maybe this weekend, or something," he says, and then somebody huffs and hits the play button of Fight Club.

Stiles is so fucking involved in the story of Tyler Durden (it's his all time favourite movie, okay?) he forgets to notice the way the entire pack seems to relax now he and Derek are interacting okay.

By the time the movie finishes, it's late, and Stiles is tired, but he's also so fucking happy.

He hasn't felt joy like this in a long time, and that almost makes him want to cling to it desperately, and never let it go.

Mostly to Derek, really, because it feels so good to be a part of his life again, even as tentative as it is.

It's just like old times, Stiles figures. He's got a bit of a way to go, and he won't ever be close to perfect (he knows the statistics, the symptoms - knows the cravings never really leave a cocaine addict), but there's hope, now. For an actual, real life, with real friends, and all of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Next chapter will be posted on Thursday.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://elpemmy.tumblr.com), which is mostly just whining about the olympic!AU I'm writing very slowly, and complaining about A Levels.


	17. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many continued thanks to Devin for betaing and putting up with my shit.
> 
> Many many MANY continued thanks to you all for reading - I honestly started this with the intention that it would be finished by March xD Still, only the epilogue to go!

Stiles spends the next month or so with the pack, refamiliarising himself with fucking _werewolves_ because wow, he feels like he's missed a lot by not being around Derek. They have a lot of general social time - movie nights, meals out, even occasional poker nights.

It's after a movie night when Stiles blinks awake in Derek's living room. The only light is coming from the hall, and everyone else has left. 

Stiles can't even remember what movie they were watching. 

Derek appears in the doorway and flicks the light on, and Stiles wonders when the last time was that he slept anywhere that wasn't in his bed, in his own apartment. It's weird, this new easy comfort he has, but he finds he kind of likes it.

"Okay?" Derek asks, and Stiles stretches, nodding.

"Tired," he says, and Derek nods. 

"Yeah, you fell asleep about ten minutes into How To Train Your Dragon."

"Damn, I love that movie," Stiles says, and he can feel himself smiling because this is so much like old times it hurts a little.

Derek grins. "Yeah, I know, but you were out like a light. Scott said you don't like being woken up."

Stiles shrugs. It's just a thing. 

"What are you going to do when the pack goes back to college?" Derek asks.

"Not a clue," Stiles sighs, slumping back onto the sofa. "What about you?"

"Same things I always do," Derek says, "very little."

Stiles snorts. "Does being a werewolf keep you from being bored out of your mind? Because I might go for the bite, if that were the case."

Derek frowns at him. "You don't want the bite, Stiles."

"Hey, I know," Stiles says, raising his hands. "That doesn't mean I'm not allowed to _hypothesize_."

"I'd give it to you, if you really wanted it," Derek says quietly, and Stiles blinks at him.

"I'm not pack," he says.

"Yeah, Stiles, you are."

"But-"

"We've both apologized," Derek says, "and I assumed that went for the cutting ties thing, too."

"Yeah," Stiles says slowly, "I just wasn't sure if you wanted me back."

"I was in my right mind the entire time, Stiles," and wow, that hurts like fuck. Stiles has forgotten, really, in this gentle, cautious period they've had, how good Derek is at hitting where it hurts.

"Derek..." Stiles starts, and trails off, because he doesn't have a fucking clue what to say.

Derek winces. "Sorry. I just - did I mean anything to you at all?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, throat dry. It comes out kind of choked off, so he carries on, "You have to know that I - that you meant a lot to me. I screwed up, I know I screwed up, but that doesn't change the fact that you mean the fucking world to me."

Derek doesn't say anything, but comes and sits next to him on the sofa. 

"Thanks," he says eventually. Stiles nods. He doesn't know why.

"Are you just going to keep working at the library, then?" Derek asks, after a long enough pause that it's awkward. 

Stiles shrugs. "I was actually thinking about taking some classes at the community college. I think my freshman credits still count."

"What would you do?" Derek asks. He sounds genuinely curious, which is nice, because Stiles has gotten used to people, especially his colleagues, regarding it as something he'd put off forever.

"Psychology, I think," Stiles says, "I was doing History and Philosophy of Science before, but I don't want to go back to that."

"Was it too hard or too boring?" Derek asks, and he sounds like he's smirking but Stiles isn't looking at him, now. He's staring into the middle distance, feeling so fucking tired.

"Too boring. Too many bad memories associated with it."

"So why psychology?"

Stiles turns to him, and smirks. "I guess a glimpse into my own psyche has inspired me to look into others?"

"You want to be a therapist?"

"Hell no," Stiles snorts. "Can you imagine me being paid to listen to people?"

"You can be a good listener when you try," Derek says.

Stiles stares at him. "Since when?"

Stiles watches Derek's adam's apple bob as he swallows. "You've listened to me, before."

"I actually give a shit about you."

Derek smirks. "You're right, don't be a therapist."

Stiles laughs. "I thought maybe research psychology, or something."

Derek nods, slowly. "I was planning on majoring in Sociology, before."

"Huh." Stiles says. "I cannot picture that."

"Well, it didn't happen," Derek says, but Stiles doesn't think he sounds too broken up about it.

Stiles eyes him. "You ever think about going back to school?"

"I have a GED," Derek says, "but it's not really a priority. I'm fine as I am."

"The werewolf anti-boredom, right," Stiles smirks.

Derek just rolls his eyes, and Stiles figures that's it, discussion tabled. 

"What time is it?" He asks, eventually.

Derek picks up Stiles phone from the floor, where it's apparently been since he fell asleep. It's flashing at him, and Stiles has no idea how he didn't notice it before.

"Shit, it's like 3am, Derek, you could've told me," he says, because he is so beyond screwed. 

Derek frowns at him. "Problem?" He says.

"It's a rule," Stiles says, which has become code for _my dad still doesn't trust me_ , "I see Dad on Sundays, and I check in with him on Thursdays."

Naomi, his sponsor, has been calling him as well, which means his dad is probably still awake and worried as shit about him. Stiles is so beyond screwed.

His dad picks up on the second ring.

"Stiles?"

"Hi, dad," Stiles says, trying to sound as sober as possible. It doesn't really work when his voice is sleep deep.

"Where the hell are you? When you didn't call, Naomi said she went round by your apartment and nobody was there."

"I'm at Derek's," Stiles says, "I slept through a movie and nobody wanted to wake me up. You know what I'm like, Dad."

His dad's voice softens. He's still not happy about the Derek thing, but he sort of gets it now, after it had been explained to him. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, Dad. Promise."

"Probably best you don't drive home at this hour," his dad says, and Stiles bites his lip, looking at Derek for permission. Derek nods. 

"It's fine, I can stay," he says.

"We'll do lunch tomorrow," his dad says, and Stiles wonders which difficult topic they will cover in that half hour. "You should call Naomi."

"Won't she be in bed?"

"You had us worried sick," his dad says, and Stiles chews on his lip some more, because the guilt is one of the things he really can't stand.

"I'm sorry. I'll see you tomorrow."

"'Night, kid," his dad says, and hangs up.

Stiles looks at Derek.

"That went okay," Derek offers.

Stiles twists his mouth. "You heard the guilt thing, though, right?"

"He'll get over it, Stiles," Derek says, putting his hand on Stiles' shoulder. Stiles stares at the hand. He has no idea what to do with it.

"I have to call Naomi," Stiles says.

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Who's Naomi?"

"My NA sponsor," Stiles says. He hates admitting it, but the Narcotics Anonymous thing had actually worked for him. Better than he thinks rehab would have, anyway. He doesn't really have friends in the group - it makes him a little uncomfortable, and he's sort of worried that they'd all drag each other down - but he and Naomi _work_ as a pair, and Stiles will forever be grateful to her for that.

He dials her number - number three on his speed dial, because the first thing they'd learned is that your sponsor is important. Stiles likes to think of her as his equivalent of a werewolf anchor. 

"Stiles?" She asks, and wow, she'd definitely been asleep.

"Hey, sorry, Dad said I should call you," Stiles says.

"It's fine, he was worried. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm -" Stiles pauses, glances at Derek. "I'm really good, actually. I'm at Derek's - I think I mentioned him?"

Derek responds with a quirk of his lips that Stiles finds himself thinking, giddily, _I'll treasure that forever_.

"Okay, cool. Thanks for calling," Naomi says, and Stiles laughs. She's only ever this short with him when she's tired.

"Goodnight, Naomi. Sorry for waking you."

"Sleep well, Stiles," she pauses, chuckles, "or don't, if you're with Derek."

She hangs up before Stiles can swear profusely at her.

He's blushing. He knows he's blushing, and he can't bear to look at Derek.

"I can make up the spare bed, if you want," Derek says, and when Stiles glances at him, Derek's blushing too. 

It's like they just stepped into an alternate universe, where Stiles hadn't fucked everything up.

"That'd be great, thanks," Stiles says. 

The house had been designed so anyone who wanted to stay over could, but while the pack is in college, most of the rooms go unused, even in the holidays. Stiles has his pick of the bedrooms, but he knows there's one that's implicitly his. 

He doesn't know if that's the one he'll get, though.

He follows Derek upstairs, watches him get the sheets and comforter out of the airing cupboard, stands in the doorway as Derek makes his bed up for him.

"Kiss goodnight?" Stiles blurts out, as Derek turns to leave.

Derek stills.

It's a surprise, then, when he leans in, and his lips brush Stiles' gentler than he thought possible. They're soft and warm, and Stiles finds himself thinking it's the sweetest kiss he's ever had before Derek pulls away.

Derek looks softer round the edges than Stiles has ever seen him, and he wants to keep this Derek forever.

"Goodnight, Stiles," Derek says, smiling at him, and he shuts the door behind him as he goes.

Stiles can't keep the grin off his face. He really fucking can't. It'd be embarrassing if he had the brain capacity to be embarrassed.

He falls asleep faster than he has in ages, and in the morning, he kisses Derek goodbye, slow and deep and sweet, before he climbs in his Jeep and drives back to his apartment.

It feels like he's finally starting to make something of the mess his life has been. It feels good, in a way that nothing quite had when he was high.

It feels like real progress, for the first time since he got back in touch with Scott.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY GOOD THINGS HAPPENED
> 
> Next chapter will be an epilogue, based approximately six years in the future and from Derek's POV, but due to unforeseen circumstances it's not completed when I thought it would be. Hopefully I'll be able to post it on Monday or Tuesday of next week, but I can't guarantee anything.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! Comments bring me joy.
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [elpemmy](http://elpemmy.tumblr.com). Feel free to join me for fangirling and occasionally talking about stuff I'm writing (I'm on the fence about doing an Olympic!AU or another angsty future fic, this time from Derek POV)


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta'd, and as such might be terrible, for which I'm really sorry. I had plans for this epilogue and they didn't really work out, so I sort of - improvised? 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> This is a Derek POV epilogue set when Stiles is 25, so approximately five years after the last chapter.

It hasn't been an easy few years.

To be fair, Derek had always known nothing about Stiles would be easy, but this is more than that. Because this isn't just Stiles, argumentative and determined and so sure in himself- this is Stiles the drug addict.

Even if Stiles is clean, they have had too many near misses over the years. 

Derek knows the statistics; he's read the pamphlets. Cocaine is one of the hardest addictions to beat, and cravings can linger for years. He can list warning signs by heart and mentally fill tick boxes in his head.

None of this makes him feel better about how sometimes Stiles goes to an unreachable place and all Derek can do is wait him out; beg and plead and call Naomi. 

He wonders, sometimes, if Stiles resents him for it. Derek loves Stiles; has for years. Derek can picture forever with Stiles, even if that forever is tumultuous. 

When Stiles was twenty three, they went "on a break", that infamous phase where something has gone horribly wrong and nobody can decide if it's quite worth piecing it back together.

It lasted two weeks before a 1am phone call from Stiles dragged Derek out of bed and back into arms because Stiles needed him, dammit, and he's abandoned him once and he's already decided he's never going to do that again.

They don't really talk about it, even after all these years. The memory lingers, but doesn't fester, and nothing is resolved. 

Derek's used to that, though. Stiles doesn't really do fixing things. 

It's taken years, and Stiles has just turned twenty five, and Derek feels like they're _almost there._

It's been six months since a box was last ticked in Derek's mental list, and there's comfort and safety in that knowledge. Stiles smiles brighter every day, picks arguments less.

Derek loves him, loves every part of him, even the parts of Stiles that hold no love for Derek at all. 

"Do you ever think about marriage?" Stiles springs on him, late at night. It's too warm under the covers in Derek's apartment - they usually stay at Stiles', but he's having maintenance work done.

"Sometimes?" He says. "It's not really a priority."

"Okay," Stiles says, "cool."

And all of a sudden Derek can't _stop_ thinking about it. He knows Stiles didn't mean anything by it, not really. Stiles has never been big into happy endings or huge commitments. They don't even formally live together, never mind that they eat practically ever meal together.

"Do you want to move in with me?" Derek asks, a week later.

Stiles wrinkles his nose. "My apartment is nicer."

It's true, it is.

They move in, and that's it.

"I don't want to get married," Stiles tells him, over dinner. Derek nods. He'd pictured, dimly, a ceremony with them both in tuxes. It had been a nice idea, but it hadn't been something that he'd needed or craved. 

"Kids?" Derek asks, mostly joking.

Stiles snorts.

Yeah. It's just as well he wasn't serious.

The thing is - it's not like they're not in it for the long haul. Derek knows Stiles, better than anyone else probably will. And if Stiles were to fuck things up - well, Derek doesn't think he'd ever recover. It's not healthy, he knows, but none of this has been healthy. They're here, supporting each other, they've made it five years and they just work.

That is, of course, when it all starts going wrong. Stiles needs space - he always has, and Derek always gives it to him. Now they're actually living together, Derek doesn't really have anywhere else to go.

He hates feeling like he's forcing Stiles out of his own apartment, though. He goes out of his way to give Stiles a safe space and yet he can't help but feel like Stiles doesn't appreciate it.

It's at dinner with Stiles' father that it all blows up in his face. 

"Are you driving each other mad yet?" the Sheriff asks, glancing between the two of them. 

They glance at each other, but neither of them say anything. The Sheriff sighs.

"Should I not have said anything?" He asks.

Derek shifts awkwardly in his seat, and looks to Stiles for guidance.

"I'm thinking about picking up a Saturday shift at the library," Stiles offers. He's working as a trauma counselor at the hospital at the moment - for all that he'd said he didn't want to go into listening to people with his psychology degree, he's damn good at it. 

"That's a lot of hours," Stiles' dad says. Silently, Derek agrees.

Stiles shrugs. "The apartment's too small with two of us in there all the time."

"I was there most of the time before," Derek points out. 

"I don't have any time to myself," Stiles says, and Derek bites his lip.

"I'm trying," he says, "I leave the apartment all the time."

"But you're always coming back!" Stiles explodes. "You're always going out and coming back, you're never just - leaving!"

Stiles' dad clears away their dishes and leaves them to it.

"What do you want me to do?" Derek asks, voice low and quiet.

Stiles blinks at him. "I don't know, I don't have all the fucking answers. Think for yourself, for once in your fucking life, jesus."

"I'm going to stay at Isaac's for a couple of days while you sort your shit out," he says, and then he scrapes back his chair and leaves.

He doesn't say goodbye to the Sheriff. He regrets it a little - he hates being rude. 

Stiles shows up at Isaac's at 4am two days later, sniffing. Isaac rolls his eyes, mutters something about "dumb shits not letting him sleep at night," and goes back to bed.

Derek can't look at Stiles.

"I fucking love you, you dick," Stiles says, and Derek knows because they've been through this before.

"But you want time away from me. You always do," Derek says. "I get it," which is only half a lie. Stiles won't be able to tell, anyway.

Stiles shuts his eyes, and Derek very carefully doesn't notice the way the lashes stick together, gummy with tears, when he opens them again.

"Will you marry me?" Stiles says brokenly. "I want you by my side forever, I don't give a shit about the other stuff, Derek, _please._ "

Derek's a little dumbfounded. As far as he knew, marriage was off the table. Completely.

"What's to say this won't happen again next week?" He asks.

Stiles shrugs. "I'm going to trade a day a week at the ER for a week at the library. I get my space, I get my time with you."

"I don't want to marry you," Derek says. 

Stiles looks a little broken.

"I don't want to marry you," Derek repeats, "because you don't really want to marry me. Marriage isn't us, Stiles. That ceremonial shit doesn't matter."

"I love you," he says, and then he holds Stiles on Isaac's crappy sofa until the sun has risen and all the traces of the tears on Stiles' face are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand and one thanks to Devin for betaing 17 of the 18 chapters of this. I owe her big time. 
> 
> Thanks to everybody who commented on this as it was going because every single one of them helped, thanks for sticking with me for over 25,000 words (which is a big deal for me), etcetera etcetera.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://elpemmy.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Yeah, just, thanks for reading. This has been a really fun ride for me, and I hope you enjoyed it too.


End file.
